The Nameless Assassins
by arianedartagnan
Summary: In haunted, crime-ridden Doskvol, Isha juggles allegiances to rival gangs, while Ash longs to rise in the cult of That Which Hungers. And as for Faith, she is bored. So, so bored. When Ash discovers that a gang leader needs help removing an enemy, he immediately recruits Isha and Faith. Together, the three form a crew of nameless assassins... (Blades in the Dark RPG adventure)
1. Chance Encounters

A flash of bright hair, golden and shimmery, beneath last season's tricorn hat. A slender figure, so much like my own that it might have been my own, clad in an Iruvian-style loose silk tunic and leggings under a heavy Akorosi cloak. Silhouetted for one brief moment in the doorway of the Iruvian Consulate, he slipped out the back way – exactly the way I would have slipped out, had I wanted to avoid Doskvolian eyes. I didn't even need to see the curve of his cheek or the shape of his hand before I flung myself around the corner, heart thudding, knowing that the first place he'd check would be my dark corner – exactly the dark corner he would have chosen, had he wanted to spy on the comings and goings at the Consulate.

Because I knew him. Oh, how I knew him.

And because he knew me. Oh, how he knew me.

I fled.

* * *

Halfway across the district, I finally calmed down enough to slow to the brisk trot of a servant running errands, or perhaps a shopkeeper's assistant delivering a late-night package to some lord or lady. Thanks to its wealthier population, the Bluecoats patrolled Brightstone more assiduously, meaning that they were less amenable to the level of bribes I could afford. (Of course, they had their price. Everyone had a price.) But luck was with me tonight, and I hit the bridge over the canal that separated the nobility from the sailors and dockers without getting accosted. As soon as I reached the Docks, I lengthened my stride again – not to the mug-me-please-mug-me-now scamper that drew all sorts of attention from the unsavory elements that hung around the taverns, brothels, and tattoo parlors, but to the purposeful I'm-busy-and-if-you-delay-me-my-boss-will-be-very-angry-and-trust-me-you-don't-want-to-see-him-angry jog that sailors and dockers alike respected. Dodging a group of workmen who cursed and sweated as they lugged a huge wooden crate towards a looming warehouse, I cut straight for the bridge to Crow's Foot.

Back in my home district at last, I flung myself into the shadowy alley behind a rickety boardinghouse and hunched over, gasping for breath. The most pressing question now was: Did I want to be a Lampblack or Red Sash tonight? Wracking my memory of recent gang fights, I tried to guess which streets belonged to which gangs at the moment, and which affiliation would be more likely to warn off petty criminals dumb enough to bother me. Unless something had gone seriously sideways during my surveillance shift, the Crows' territory should still lie to my west, extending from the Crow's Nest tower out to the river, so none of their followers would molest me on my way home. Thanks to the way my features looked either Skovlander or Iruvian depending on the lighting and the observer's bias, the newer, dumber, or drunker Lampblacks and Red Sashes would consider me a fellow countrywoman and let me through – if I got my outfit right, that was. Of course, I could run through any interlopers with my sword, but that was messy and noisy and would annoy either Bazso Baz or Mylera Klev. Also, in the event of a death, it would attract the attention of the Spirit Wardens and of any Bluecoats hungry for a bribe. (Which they always were.) I was trying to conserve my rent money.

Oh, whatever. Yanking a red silk scarf – which looked more or less black on the unlit backstreets of Crow's Foot anyway – out of a coat pocket, I wrapped it around my waist twice and knotted it securely on the right side, away from Grandfather's hilt. Then, with the ends fluttering along behind me, I sauntered down quiet Hulliver Lane, with its crumbling stone manors that housed up to a dozen families each, and swung onto the wider Cinder Street, where taverns and brothels jockeyed for business while smithies and butcher houses catnapped for the last few hours until dawn. Here a prostitute giggled coquettishly at a docker passing her corner; there a tattooed tough handed a nervous young nobleman a packet of drugs; and in the distance a couple Bluecoats strode out of an inn, looking so smug that they must have extorted a significant sum from the innkeeper.

Onto Ash Way I turned, home to my tiny flat on the third floor of a ramshackle flophouse. As I puffed my way up the creaky wooden stairs – "Keeps those pretty legs of yours trim!" as old Madame Bell liked to cackle, which might offend me if she didn't say it to all of her boarders, men and women alike – I finally got around to pressing question number two: What should I do now that _he_ had tracked me to Doskvol? Maybe I should stow away on the next train to exit the lightning barrier. But I hated the idea of restricting my movements to the length of one train as we chugged through the deathlands.

And anyway, where could I go? As much as I missed the jet-black deserts and jagged mountain peaks of Iruvia, the entire isle was off limits. So, too, was cold, mountainous Skovlan – Mother came from a prominent family in Lockport, and not only did I resemble her right down to the pale-gold shade of my hair, but any half-Skovlander, half-Iruvian newcomer would remind the locals of the beautiful young woman who married the Iruvian nobleman and (suspected) spy. It made such a romantic tale and, if Mother's endless store of sagas and skaldic poetry were any indication, the Skovlanders loved their romantic tales. My sudden appearance in Skovlan wouldn't attract the attention of the Imperial authorities, always twitchy about another uprising, _at all_. Severos, unfortunately, was too sparsely populated for me to hide easily, and I barely knew anything about the Dagger Isles, except that they were all jungle. Black jungle. No thanks. And the final option – leaving the Imperium entirely and seeking asylum in Tycheros – was no option. The Tycherosi were part _demon_. If demons didn't bother me, why would I have run away from home in the first place?

Staying in Doskvol it was, then. After all, if I couldn't lose myself in the seedy underbelly of one of the largest and most densely packed cities in the entire Imperium, where could I possibly hide? And if I couldn't manage to stay one step ahead of _him_, then maybe I deserved to be caught and dragged back to U'Duasha.

Maybe, after two years of jumping at shadows, I wouldn't mind being caught and dragged home to U'Duasha.

Lost in thought, I completely forgot to check my door for signs of entry. Mechanically, I disabled my trap, jiggled my key just the right way to turn the finicky lock, shouldered open the door, which had a tendency to stick, especially on damp nights like this, and stepped into my room.

"I got it right this time, did I?" asked an amused voice, faintly inflected with Skovic tones, from the battered wooden desk by the window.

I dropped the key and drew Grandfather, whose steel blade flashed with excitement. _Yeeesss!_

Limned by the pale moonlight, a tall man with light brown hair sprawled out in my chair held up both hands slowly but casually. "Easy there, Isha. You wouldn't want to stab me by accident, would you?"

"Bazso!" I hissed, ramming Grandfather back into its scabbard and heaving my door shut. "What in the names of all the forgotten gods are you doing in my bedroom?"

Instead of answering, he conjured up a bottle of whiskey and three small, somewhat smudged glasses from his coat pockets. "Wrong choice of costume, Isha dear, if you were coming from the Docks," he advised, nodding at the sash. "Some of my newer recruits might have gotten the wrong idea."

Now that I was home and safe, all of my exhaustion caught up with me. Unbuckling my sword belt, I laid Grandfather reverently across the foot of my bed, then untied the sash and tossed it at a bedpost. It missed and pooled silkily on the bare floorboards. I left it there and kicked off my boots.

In stockinged feet, I crossed the room and hopped up to sit on my desk. "Good evening for the gang, then?" I asked the head of the Lampblacks conversationally. I didn't bother to ask how he'd known which direction I'd come from. Like as not, his lookouts had warned him as soon as I paused for breath behind that boardinghouse by the bridge to the Docks.

"Indeed." With a ceremonial flourish, he set one of the glasses on the desk, a little ways from us. Only then did he pour whiskey into the two other glasses. Like a gentleman, he offered me one before holding up the last in front of the window, swirling the liquid around and admiring its color, and inhaling deeply. "I came here to celebrate with you. Since you didn't answer, I let myself in. Either I reset your trap right – or you were careless when you returned. Which was it?" For all the harshness of his words, his voice sounded concerned.

"Which do you think it was?" I retorted, in no mood for a lecture. Even at the best of times, spying on the Consulate for Lady Irimina ranked near the bottom of my preferred nighttime activities. It definitely hit rock bottom when _he_ showed up. He shouldn't have found me so quickly, I thought in despair, closing my eyes and downing the whiskey in one gulp. The sheer quantity of false trails I'd sown in Bright Harbor should have kept him and his minions busy for a decade. What had I missed? What had I done wrong?

Warm fingers took the glass from my hand. Liquid splashed softly, and then the glass pressed back against my fingers. "Isha. What's wrong?"

On any other night, Bazso's accent might have comforted me because it reminded me of Mother and home. But not tonight. Because it reminded me of Mother and home. Opening my eyes again, I forced a little chuckle. "Nothing much." I even managed a dismissive shrug. My traitorous tongue kept blabbing, though. "I thought I saw – someone – I knew. At the Consulate."

After two years, Bazso knew better than to pry into my past. Mostly because I'd told him, over and over, that it was safer for him and his people not to know – but also because I lost my temper when he pushed too hard.

"I wish you'd trust me," he said soberly. "Two years, and you still won't tell me your real name."

Holding my glass, I just stared at him blankly.

"Glass for a street name, Isha Yara for a fake real name – my dear, what are you hiding from? Why did you come here?"

I downed the whiskey and held out the glass for more. "Mother always told me Doskvolian whiskey was the best in the world. I had to find out for myself."

With a deliberate chuckle of his own, he dropped the interrogation and admonished me teasingly, "Your mother would never have said that, my dear. _Skovlander_ whiskey is the best in the world. Drink it more slowly, Isha. Smell it. Taste it. _Savor_ it."

I obeyed, letting it burn its way down my throat and sear away my fears. I'd figure out what to do about _him _tomorrow, I promised myself. There was nothing I could do right now anyway. Sipping his own drink, Bazso smiled contentedly up at me, and I slid off the desk and into his lap, taking care not to upset either of our glasses or to knock over the empty one on the table. Tonight, just for tonight, I'd let myself savor the present – my lover's arms tight around my back, his shoulder warm beneath my cheek, the best whiskey in the world gleaming in its bottle, and, above us, the hard white moonlight spilling over the rooftops and streaming through my crooked shutters.


	2. A New Crew

Bazso left at the hour of chains, as was his wont, claiming that my bed was too hard and too tiny and that he needed a few hours of decent sleep to deal effectively with his band of miscreants (by which he meant the Red Sashes and Crow's Foot Bluecoats). Personally, I suspected that he didn't trust the security of Madame Bell's flophouse – or of my warning systems. Which was a little insulting when I thought about it. True, I didn't dare tell him _why_ I was so good at my traps and disguises, but you'd think he could judge them based on quality alone.

Maybe it wasn't the traps he didn't trust.

Sitting on my desk with my legs drawn up to my chest, I brooded and watched his figure disappear into the shadows on the other side of the street. With a finger, I traced the arc of the brilliant moon and its pale sisters across the glittering constellations. Then I mapped the larger thoroughfares of the city by their lines of electroplasmic lights – whose advent had flung the Lamplighters' Guild into a life of crime as the Lampblacks – and I waited for dawn.

When it finally came, what I could see of the distant sky between the buildings glowed a deep, dull red, pulsing and throbbing as if the shattered shards of the sun were striving to burst back into flames. They failed, as they always did, and after a quarter hour of desperate, doomed struggle, the horizon sagged back into blackness and the stars shone out fiercely. A new day had come.

Time to sleep, then, until my afternoon class.

* * *

"Isha! Oh, Isha, my darling!"

A familiar (and familiarly annoying) voice hailed me later that day as I left the Red Sash Sword Academy. Satisfied with the progress of my last batch of students, Mylera had promoted them to intermediate lessons and assigned me a fresh group of beginners, the usual motley mix of offspring of Iruvian nobles and diplomats, younger children of Akorosi aristocrats, and the better class of street thug. I gave them my standard lecture on different types of blades, taught them the basics of proper stance, and generally exercised them until even the less flabby and whiny ones complained. Then I dismissed them until the following week.

"Isha! Over here! Isha!"

Turning reluctantly, I glared into the darkness to find one of my ex-students, Faith Karstas, un-draping herself from the low wall around the school. As usual, she wore the most ridiculous dress ever, all bows and ruffles and tiers of lace. In U'Duasha, where we artificially maintained a proper day-night cycle, the fabric might have looked pink or lavender. Here in Doskvol, which embraced no such technology, everything faded into shades of grey and more grey, from the lace at her neckline to the satin sash that puffed into a huge bow at her waist and bounced up and down along with the rest of her.

"I told you to call me Glass," I growled. The forgotten gods alone knew how she'd discovered my (fake) real name.

Also as usual, she ignored me. "Ash! Ashie, dear, wasn't I right? Isn't she as mighty as the majestic moon? Isn't she as sublime as a slithering snake?"

A shadow detached itself from a neighboring doorway and acquired the form of a young man about our age, so pale he might have been albino. He cast an apologetic look in my direction – the default expression of anyone associated with Faith – and replied a little dismissively, "Yes, yes, she should do nicely." Before I could take offense, he strode over and executed a prim bow. "Good evening, miss," he said courteously. "My name is Ashlyne Slane. You may call me Ash. I find myself in need of a good swordsman – or woman – and Faith very, uh, enthusiastically recommended your services."

"Oh?" I asked warily, hovering my hand at my side, where I could easily whip out my sword (not Grandfather, whom I didn't demean with beginner lessons). I didn't bother to introduce myself.

Faith flounced over, all her bows and ruffles bobbing merrily. "Yes, yes! Isha's just the best-est swordmaster in the entire academy! I should know! I took half of a whole series of fencing classes from her!"

Yes, yes, she had. Her stint at the academy had been remarkable primarily for her outrageous attire. Who'd have thought you could find a frilly fencing jacket? Distraction via feminine charm had played a greater role in her practice matches than actual skill, but I had to admit that she'd worked hard. And then, halfway through the class, she'd vanished.

"May I propose that we retire somewhere more private? A tavern, perhaps?" Ash suggested.

I hesitated for a long moment. I really wasn't certain that I could work with Faith for any length of time without stabbing her. But then again, I was constantly scrounging around for odd jobs, and even with Irimina's commission, I was still short half a month's rent. Bazso, under whose auspices I'd found my tiny flat in the first place, would never let Madame Bell kick me out – but there was a limit to the extent I was willing to rely on him. Even if he were my friend and lover. Particularly because he was my friend and lover. "Oh, very well."

Needing no further encouragement, Faith traipsed across the street to the nearest pub, where she and Ash explained their business over a dinner of mushroom pie and watermoss soup. Or, to be more accurate, Faith plopped down next to me and regaled me with a dramatic tale of how they'd met, which involved daring swordfights and narrow escapes and kidnappings-by-moonlight gone awry, which the shocked expression on poor Ash's face told me was maybe twenty percent true.

Ash himself provided more useful information. "My mother is the head of an organization that sells – well, never mind about that." I nodded and filed that away for future investigation. "The important thing is that she knows Cortland, the leader of the Lost." I nodded again. The Lost was a bizarrely idealistic band of thugs and former soldiers who devoted their lives to protecting the poor of Coalridge from predatory workhouse foremen. "They are not, shall we say, particularly well equipped to deal with the supernatural, and Cortland recently learned that the Billhooks have sent a Whisper against him." Before I could ask, he specified, "Kamilin. A lightning mage from the Dagger Isles."

"So Cortland hired you to deal with this Kamilin, and you're looking to form a crew."

"Correct."

"I've seen Faith dealing with ghosts, so I know she's a Whisper – " ("You were _spying_ on me? Why, Isha, I didn't know you cared!") – "and I'm a Slide, but what are you?"

Modestly, Ash replied, "I'm a Slide too. I can always tell when someone's lying to me."

Some of my family also developed an uncanny ability to detect lies, but I focused on disguises and misdirection. That meant our skills would complement each other nicely. In my head, I considered the going rate for assassinations and added a surcharge for the "lightning mage" part. Anywhere from six to eight coin should do.

But when I raised the issue of pay, Ash responded, "Cortland, as I'm sure you're well aware, is low on cash. He has offered me – that is, us – a nice passenger car in the Old Rail Yard to use as a hideout. I've looked at it already. It has compartments that we can turn into bedrooms, plus a dining area that we can use as a common room. What do you think?"

I thought it sounded significantly less attractive than hard coin. "How long, exactly, will he let us use this railcar?"

"Oh, call it not a simple, humble 'railcar,' dearest Isha! For it is home! Sweet, sweet home in all its glory! With its raggedy carpeting and moth-ridden compartments and broken windows – "

"Indefinitely." Ash cut off Faith's audition for Spiregarden Theater's latest melodrama. "It's ours for as long as we want it."

All things considered, it wasn't _such _a bad deal. If I moved out of my flat, I wouldn't need to worry about rent anymore, and while Coalridge wasn't any _nicer_ than Crow's Foot, at least it didn't have all-out gang warfare all the time. "I'll have to take a look at the railcar myself, but for now let's say I'm in."

"A toast, then! A toast to – " Faith began.

"There's one more thing," Ash said flatly. Lowering his voice a little, he leaned forward across the table to address both of us. "I'll need one-on-one time with the target. Before he dies, that is."

Faith looked as if she couldn't care less.

"Why, exactly?" I asked suspiciously.

"Oh, you know. One shouldn't allow life to be wasted," Ash explained vaguely, waving his fork as if to illustrate the vagaries of death and assassination. The movement rucked up his sleeve and exposed an inch of skin between his glove and sleeve.

The skin was pitch black.

I dropped my spoon and reached for my sword.

"Where did you say you're from?" I hissed.

"Why, he's from Tycheros, of course! Land of the demon spawn!" supplied Faith the helpful, lazily tilting her chair back from the table.

Demon. I gripped the hilt and prepared to draw my sword.

"Why, darling, one might think you're a racist! And after I recommended you so highly too! You disappoint me, really you do!"

Both Ash and I ignored Faith.

"To be more precise," Ash enunciated, "my family immigrated from Tycheros to Doskvol two years ago. And yes, my right arm is pitch black up the elbow, but the rest of me is albino. That is my demon telltale." As if challenging me to act fair minded, he inquired slowly and clearly, "Is my heritage going to be a problem?"

Well, yes. The man was part _demon_.

"Isha," Faith reproached me, "I know he's a demon, but as someone from Iruvia, you can't just stab him like that!"

I winced a little. Each of U'Duasha's four noble houses drew its celestial mandate from a Demon Prince. House Anixis, for example, claimed to speak for Ixis, the Prince of Shadows, and served his will by running Iruvia's spy network. Faith's accusation made me sound like the worst kind of hypocrite, and she wasn't even finished yet.

"Actually, on a second thought, I'll bet Ashie does demonic stuff aaaaaallll the time! Ashie, go on, tell her about that time you kidnapped a baby – no, thirteen babies! – and brought them to the upside-down altar and – "

I hadn't yet broken my stare. "Is whatever ritual you plan to perform on the target demonic in nature?"

Ash answered immediately and, as far as I could tell, honestly. "No. The reason I need one-on-one time with the target has nothing to do with anything demonic."

Sighing in relief, I released the hilt and picked up my spoon again. "I guess that's all right, then." I proffered a shaky, olive-branch of a smile.

Ash returned it. "Want to go see the railcar?"


	3. Kamilin

For security reasons, our crew reconvened in a pub controlled by Cortland's people. Over a few perfunctory objections from Faith, Ash appointed himself chairman of the meeting. (As consolation, she commandeered an entire side of the booth and toppled back across the length of the bench, stockinged legs sticking out like carrots from her lacy petticoats.)

"I suggest that we form a crew with Kamilin and then kill him while he's distracted," Ash told us, his matter-of-fact tone indicating that he'd already spent quite some time weighing our options.

I nodded noncommittally, reluctant to divulge more about my thought processes than strictly necessary.

"We can tell him that someone hired a Whisper miscreant to deal with a haunted house, but the miscreant was incompetent and died. We get Kamilin to take the job."

From under the table, Faith's voice drifted up to us. "That's so delightfully twisty and treacherous. I _knew_ I liked you."

Interpreting that as assent, Ash continued, "We do need to find a haunted house."

When the Whisper of the crew remained silent, I proposed cautiously, "How about somewhere in Six Towers?"

It was, after all, the logical choice, and hence revealed little about myself or the knowledge I'd accumulated. A mausoleum of abandoned estates and manors, Six Towers lurked on the east side of the city, blessedly far from me (or rather, from anywhere I could afford to live). Citizens who were just well off enough to flee the killing fields of Crow's Foot, but who weren't quite bohemian enough for Silkshore, squatted uneasily in Six Towers, where they more or less co-existed with all manner of ghostly echoes and savage specters. Personally, I questioned the sanity of anyone who chose rogue spirits over artist communes.

Striving to sound like any normal – i.e. hopelessly ignorant – resident of Doskvol, I added entirely redundantly, "I'm sure we can find a nice abandoned mansion that's already full of ghosts."

Taking an interest in the proceedings at last, our resident Whisper contributed from under the table, "It doesn't even need to be haunted already. Find one that's good for an ambush, and I'll pack it to the brim with vicious, starving ghosts ready to pounce on whatever deliciously snackable soul walks through the door."

And that was why we kept her around.

"That's a good idea," approved Ash. "We'll need to find someone to pretend to hire us, though. A noble, perhaps?"

Preemptively steering him away from anyone connected to the Iruvian Consulate, I volunteered my sometime employer. "I know a Lady Irimina Kinclaith over in Brightstone."

Faith promptly popped up like a jack-in-the-box. "Why, Isha, you _know_ a lady?" she asked in a sultry tone, suggestiveness practically dripping off her tongue.

I skewered her with my best if-you-interrupt-the-fencing-mistress-one-more-time-she-will-run-you-through glare. Nothing daunted, she giggled, waggled her eyebrows, and flopped back down. "I work the odd job for Lady Irimina," I addressed Ash directly. "I trust her." For some definition of trust, anyway.

After thinking it over for a moment, he nodded and said (guilelessly, as far as I could tell), "Then I suggest we contact her and ask for a favor. Unless one of us is hiding noble blood, that is?"

I gave him a perfectly blank stare.

* * *

Passing through busy Nightmarket, Doskvol's commercial district, we scoured Six Towers until we found the perfect trap – a dilapidated mansion whose former elegance still showed in the graceful swoop of its tower and the remnants of delicate wood trim around the eaves. A narrow porch with broken railings ran around two sides of the building, the better to slow our quarry in case he escaped outside, and the battered front door opened onto a cramped foyer that would restrict his movements inside.

"Excellent!" exclaimed Faith, twirling her way up the main staircase and draping herself against the bannister in a business-like fashion. "This is _just_ what I always pictured as a haunted house."

"Shall we leave you to it, then?" I proposed, trying to signal Ash to exit as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, he didn't know my system of hand signals and kept gawking up at Faith. "We can talk to Lady Irimina while you work your Whisper magic."

"No, no, no!" Faith cried, plummeting down the stairs like a fluffy pink storm of ghosts. "I simply must meet this beautiful, gracious lady of yours!"

"She's not _my_ – " I gave up mid-sentence. What was the point? "_Please_ try to behave yourself," I beseeched instead.

"Why, certainly, Isha! Anything for you."

* * *

Faith, as it turned out, wasn't particularly impressed by Irimina's estate, which tended towards shabbiness.

The lady in question was even less impressed by Faith's dramatics, but she eventually agreed to trade us a favor for a favor, to be called in at any time. Although I actively disliked the deal, I couldn't even blame any of the others, since they'd let me take the lead in negotiations.

"Tell him to come tomorrow, Glass," Irimina commanded briskly. "Not too early. Midmorning, I should think."

"Yes, milady," I promised. "With your permission, if you write him a note, I'll pose as your personal secretary and deliver it to him."

Without bothering to sit down, she hunched over her writing desk, scrawled out a few lines, and handed me the paper.

* * *

Back in my tiny flat, I transformed myself into the very picture of a snooty clerk – pristine white shirt with an aggressively starched collar, jet black jacket, sharply creased trousers, and, to suggest a hint of foppishness, the very latest in tricorn hats. This season's extra-wide brim cast the wearer's face into shadow, which was part of the reason I'd splurged for it over in Nightmarket. Over my shoulders went a heavy wool cloak, just worn enough for Crow's Foot but just nicely tailored enough for a would-be-dandy on a secretary's salary. Thus accoutered, I tiptoed down the creaky stairs and let myself out the back door.

Cortland's spies had already provided us with a reasonably accurate schedule of Kamilin's movements – what an amateur, to have a schedule! – and so I made straight for the Whisper's preferred pub, an unusually classy establishment in Coalridge. Hovering disdainfully in the doorway, I observed that the plain wooden tables and chairs looked as if someone periodically polished them, and the booths actually sported scraggly cushions. Automatically, I counted the patrons, estimated their ages, and guessed at their professions based on accent and attire. The bulk were probably factory foremen plus more experienced and hence slightly better-paid machinists, although here and there I spotted a nervous factory hand out on a fancy date.

And at the very back – there. Through the smoky haze of the pub's oil lamps flashed a metallic glint from a wire loop. At a tiny table crammed into an out-of-the-way corner sat my target, lightning hook propped against the wall. All alone, the Dagger Islander was turning an empty spirit bottle, a crystalline cylinder the size of a demi-baguette, over and over in his hands. From the empty beer mug in front of him and the half-bored, half-resigned expression on his face, I guessed that customers from rural backwaters didn't merit speedy service. I almost felt sorry for the man.

No, I did feel sorry for him.

("Emotions are fine, as long as they don't interfere with your job," Father used to say. "Emotions keep you human," Mother would add.)

Feigning distaste at the low-class clientele, I lifted my chin haughtily, wrapped my cloak tightly around myself as if I couldn't bear to let it touch anything here, less I contract a fatal case of poverty, and stalked right up to my target. "Master Kamilin," I pronounced coldly, executing the tiniest of bows and angling my head so the hat obscured my features.

He jerked to attention, and I watched him register my outfit and draw all the appropriate conclusions. Triumphantly, he scanned the room to check whether the other patrons had noticed his conversation with a real gentleman from not-Coalridge. "Yes, that is I," he replied smugly.

Playing on his arrogance and pitching my voice to carry, I said clearly, "I have a missive for you from my employer." From a jacket pocket, I produced Irimina's note and handed it to him with a flourish.

Then I bowed again, as if it were beneath me not to do so, and stalked back out.

* * *

In the daytime, the Kinclaith mansion looked slightly better than it did by moonlight, mostly because the skeletal trees surrounding the property blocked the streetlights from illumining the house itself, and so the darkness of midmorning hid any multitude of cracked eaves and broken shutters. Clad in long robes and a top hat that seemed somehow pointy, our target strode up to the front gate right as we did, his suspiciously good timing suggesting that he'd come early and hidden nearby to wait for us. Probably because the size of the estate overawed him.

Draped as dramatically as Faith over a threadbare satin divan, the lady of the house received us in her sitting room. In that position, the unforgivingly harsh electroplasmic lights set in brackets on the walls highlighted the outdated style of her dress, but I doubted that Kamilin noticed.

"Ah, there you are!" she exclaimed as we executed our bows from the doorway. "Let me have a look at you." Led by Kamilin, we shuffled a little closer and arrayed ourselves before her like properly cowed servants. "You all come most highly recommended!"

"What is the nature of the task you have for us, milady?" Kamilin asked, lifting his chin and trying his hardest to sound urbane. What he accomplished was sounding like an awkward, backwards Dagger Islander trying to sound urbane.

The lady gave him a pointed glance, as if electing to overlook his _mauvais ton_ thanks to her own high birth and impeccable manners. "We – the Kinclaith family, that is – have an estate in Six Towers," she proclaimed haughtily, making "estate" sound like "palace" or "imperial complex." "Tragically, we have an…_infestation_, you might say." She gave a brief description of the place we'd scouted the previous day. "I will offer six coin for you to clear it."

One coin alone sufficed to cover rent and meals for a month, longer if you skimped on meals. Kamilin's eyes lit up. "Surely milady can see that six coin doesn't divide well," he suggested in such an unctuously oily tone that I longed to scrub out my ears and my brain for good measure. "Eight coin would not be too much for a lady of quality such as yourself."

Irimina frowned at the impertinence and pretended to ponder just how far _noblesse oblige_ extended. In the end, she made a show of gracious assent, and Kamilin looked insufferably pleased with himself.

"Well, no time like the present to start!" said Ash briskly. "Come along, everyone. Let's not keep milady waiting!"

During the walk to Six Towers, he struck up an amiable conversation with the target, flattering him over the quality of his lightning hook and spirit bottles. Faith, being Faith, couldn't bear to be left out and leaped into the game, gushing, "Oh my, I have never seen such negotiating prowess!" Only I noticed when Ash pickpocketed Kamilin's spiritbane charm.

As soon as we arrived at the mansion, Faith trotted right in without a word to the rest of us. Dashing after her, Kamilin scolded her furiously for foolhardiness in an effort to cover his chagrin that a _girl_ had taken point. Ash and I exchanged satisfied nods and followed him up the creaky porch steps and through the front door into the cramped foyer.

I stopped dead.

Our Whisper had certainly done her job.

Dark and peaceful as an U'Duashan cemetery just half a day earlier, the foyer now blazed with translucent bluish-white forms. Commanded by Faith, the ghosts had crammed themselves into the mansion, rank upon rank, compressed so tightly that I could barely tell where one ended and another began. Some specters still looked vaguely human – if mad, hollow eyes and stiletto fingernails counted as human – while others were all gaping mouths and sharpened spines and writhing tentacles. A pack of them prowled around Faith, plastering themselves against an invisible circle that instinct or the remnants of their sanity warned them was a safe distance. They obviously thought she looked delicious, but just as obviously feared the lightning hook in her hand. In the eerie light that they cast, Faith's pale skin and platinum blonde hair turned so blue that she might have been a ghost herself. Seeming completely at ease, she closed her eyes and sank into a meditative trance.

With high-pitched howls just on the edge of human hearing, the entire pack of ghosts dove for Kamilin, darting and tearing at him like ravenous wolves. Ripped robes and tangled hair swirling wildly in the maelstrom, the Whisper raised his lightning hook in both hands and tapped into the city grid to charge the capacitor to bursting. The entire device began to hum and vibrate and crackle. Little flashes of lightning crawled along the metal loop, licking out like snakes testing the air. The hum turned into a steady buzz and a _pressure_ that grew louder and louder, more and more unbearable –

Just when I thought the air itself would explode, Kamilin whipped the staff around and discharged it straight into a knot of specters. Electric blue lightning leapt out in all directions, arcing and sizzling and striking at the ghosts. Dripping and oozing, a few of them lurched backwards and hissed ferociously and bared their teeth as the rents in their forms slowly sealed back up. The rest swooped and dodged madly over and under and around the spears of lightning and redoubled their attack. Sweeping the lightning hook in great circles and turning again and again, Kamilin barely succeeded in fending them off.

I stealthily drew Grandfather and crept towards him, focusing on his torso.

From behind me came a loud _bang._

A bullet tore through a swarm of ghosts, which blurred and reformed in an instant, and obliterated a section of bannister on the second floor. Splinters of wood and dust rained down on Faith, who let out a shrill shriek of surprise or delight or warning or all of the above.

I was already lunging forward, Grandfather outstretched – but Kamilin spun around at the gunshot. Eyes wide with shock, he fired a gout of lightning straight at my chest. "Traitors!" he roared.

I flung myself to the side at the last second, dropping nimbly to the floor and rolling under the lightning.

At the same time, Ash fumbled frantically in his pockets for something, and Faith raised her arms beatifically and commanded her ghosts in a rapturous tone, "_Attack him_!"

But instead of falling on Kamilin and tearing him to shreds, the specters perked up and pressed even closer around her, all frenzied eyes and jagged teeth.

A puff of trance powder shot through the air and struck Kamilin square in the face. Inhaling at exactly the wrong – or right? – moment, he coughed and wheezed furiously but still managed to swing his lightning hook around and fire his last bolt of lightning right at Ash.

Staggering and catching himself on a side table, Ash mostly grounded himself – just as more ghosts came roaring down from the second floor like a tidal wave, screeching and wailing their hunger.

Bounding back to my feet with Grandfather in hand, I screamed at Faith, "How many ghosts are there?"

"A lot!" she yelled back, desperately attuning to the ghost field to hold them back and buy us a little breathing space.

"He's starting to look woozy!" shouted Ash.

Still clinging to his lightning hook, Kamilin swayed a little as he began to recharge it.

I didn't give him the chance to finish. With one swift lunge, I threw myself across the room and rammed Grandfather through his chest. _Yeeesss!_ The blade writhed under my fingers, like a cat arching in pleasure.

Kamilin collapsed to the floor like a broken marionette.

At the sight of fresh life's blood pouring from a living body, the ghosts fought even harder against Faith's grip.

"I need a moment alone with him!" Ash called urgently, dropping to his knees by Kamilin's body and pressing his fingers to the Whisper's neck to check for a heartbeat.

For just a few seconds, the ghosts lost interest in us and started to drift away – but then snapped back to attention and surged forward anew.

"You want us to just abandon you?" I shrieked incredulously, brandishing Grandfather futilely at the ghosts.

_I can save you if you just listen to me, foolish child!_

_No!_

Shoving sweaty hair out of her eyes, Faith shouted, "It's _his_ life!"

As if unconcerned by the ravenous specters following his every move, Ash seized the unconscious Kamilin under the shoulders and lugged him down the hallway and around a corner.

I didn't see Faith make a single motion, but all of a sudden, one particularly vicious specter spun around and tore into the nearest crowd of ghosts, rending and devouring them down to the last drop. Ectoplasm sprayed everywhere as the swarm dissolved into a howling, chaotic, swirling miasma. Faith threw her head back to watch with rapt attention.

Still holding Grandfather in front of me and keeping a wary eye on the brawl, I backed away cautiously. From around the corner where Ash had disappeared with Kamilin, a soft blue glow rose for a moment, then went out as if extinguished. A moment later, Ash himself jogged towards us, looking grimly satisfied. "We're done here!" he called.

"Sorry! I forgot something in there!" Faith suddenly skipped down the hallway and around the corner.

"Faith!" I screamed after her, torn between fleeing and going after the madwoman. "We have to go _now_!"

"She's a Whisper! She'll be fine!" Ash shouted over the ghosts' free-for-all. A howling ball of specters sailed by overhead and smashed through a wall into the next room. More angry ghosts plunged after it. "We need to go!"

My boot caught on a loose floorboard, and I nearly toppled backwards. Ash grabbed my arm to steady me, and together we threw ourselves out of the house and down the front steps and all the way across the yard into the street.

Not until we practically ran into an echo several houses down did we stop sprinting at last. In front of us, a translucent, glowing woman clutched at her chest, wailed silently, and crumpled to the pavement. Her image wavered, blinked, then reformed. Standing once more, she clutched at her chest, wailed silently, and crumpled to the pavement. The scene repeated, over and over and over as I stared at it blankly, panting and fighting for breath. I'd never fully appreciated it before today, but echoes were safe as long as you didn't touch them. By the forgotten gods, I'd never again complain about an echo!

Only then did I realize that Ash was still clutching my arm with his right hand, his pitch-black demon right hand.

It felt perfectly normal, like any other human hand.

Realizing it at the same time, he hastily dropped it and shoved it into a pocket, looking a little abashed.

"Um. Thanks. I – " I stopped, not quite knowing what to say.

Faith rescued me from myself. Skipping down the street after us, she skidded to a halt before the echo and examined it with detached interest. Then she twirled a glowing spirit bottle once before tucking it into her satchel.

"Well," she remarked, "that thing with the ghosts reminds me: We missed lunch! So – who's hungry?"


	4. Observations

I skipped lunch.

Not because I'd killed my appetite along with Kamilin, as I pleaded to the others, but because I needed my last remaining silver slugs for something more important.

"Never jump into relationships too fast," Mother used to warn in Skovic, on those melancholy days when she found the Well's flames oppressively bright. Subsequent to the famed romance in Lockport, the fair maiden departed the shores of dark, starry Skovlan for the black crystal spires and celestial fires of U'Duasha – and, of course, the snake pit that was her new husband's family. With far-flung branches tangled in internecine quarrels, cycles of murder and vengeance played out across generations, presided over and (some whispered) encouraged by the Patriarch. Scion of a cutthroat leviathan blood processing empire herself, the lovely young bride plunged in with gusto. Mother proved such a perfect partner for Father that some of my outmaneuvered aunts, uncles, and cousins even insinuated that the Prince of Shadows himself had something to do with their marriage.

Perhaps. Ixis played the long game – as did Mother.

But sometimes, after a long, lonely night during which my twin brother and I huddled in a closet, clinging to each other for comfort while the latest assassination – character or otherwise – raged through the halls, we'd creep out to find her standing by the window nearest our bedrooms, staring fixedly out across the city. Silently we'd join her, and with her watch the skies until the last glittering stars surrendered to the onslaught of dawn. Then, absently, she'd pet our heads and say, "Always take time to observe and evaluate. Remember that those you trust most can hurt you worst."

Now, an isle away, I followed her advice: For the better part of a week, I investigated my new crewmates. Turning down a few contracts I could ill afford to lose, I personally tailed Faith and Ash until I formed a sense of their habits, and then I dispensed the last of my slugs to buy informants.

"She's a disturbing one, is Mistress Karstas," reported a mousy-looking archivist from Charterhall.

Although it lay just across a canal from Crow's Foot, this district housed such lofty establishments as government offices, banks, Charterhall University, the Bellweather Crematorium – and the Sensorium, an elegant building with a marble façade kept white by weekly washings. This was one of the first places Faith headed after we earned our railcar. Peering through a window, I watched her traipse down a massive hall lined with rows and rows of comfortable couches. People sprawled on them like opium addicts, losing themselves in the memories of others. Some sighed and smiled; others twitched and convulsed; efficient attendants checked them periodically. Faith vanished into a back room where I couldn't follow, and I turned my attention to bribing the clerk who ran the memory archive.

Unfortunately, he wasn't a natural at espionage. "I want facts, please," I reprimanded him. "Not your personal opinion. _I_ will judge whether Mistress Karstas is disturbing or not."

Looking abashed, he ducked his head so far that his bowler hat toppled off. Barely catching it, he muttered, "She comes in once a week on average, I hear for at least ten years. Sometimes she has a spirit bottle – those times she sells the ghost to Madame Keitel. Other times she comes to…experience. More often than not, she requests a particularly violent and gruesome memory."

That was another subjective statement, unless the Sensorium officially categorized certain memories as "violent and gruesome." Somehow I doubted it. "Such as…?" I prodded.

The man actually shuddered. Then the words came spilling out, as if he couldn't bear to hold them in. "She just comes in, wearing in that fussy pink dress, the one with the big sash and all the layers and layers of ruffles, and she waltzes past all the _normal _patrons – the ones who want to live a happy memory or a sensual memory or even a memory of a classroom lecture – you know, memories from people who are still _alive_ – " In his agitation, he turned his bowler hat over and over his hands.

"Go on," I ordered.

"I sneaked up to listen, just like you asked." The hat spun through his fingers. "She says, 'Good evening, beautiful' to Madame Keitel. And then she says, sounding happy as a bird, that after such a stressful adventure, she needs to relax, and have you extracted any memories yet? And Madame Keitel says yes, it's damaged, but she got some. Um." Screwing up his face, he recited, "Lightning in the Dagger Isles, gang warfare in Crow's Foot…and more I can't remember."

"That's all right," I said encouragingly. "Go on."

"And she – Mistress Karstas, I mean – just looks at Madame Keitel with that sweet, angelic expression of hers and says, 'Something brutal and violent.'" The archivist stopped again, practically sweating, as if _he_ were living a particularly terrible memory.

After giving him a moment to collect himself, I prompted, "And then what happened?"

"And then Madame Keitel says, 'You want the end, don't you?' and they start walking towards the archive! I had to run back there as fast as I could so I could pretend I'd been there the whole time."

"Did you see what memory Madame Keitel gave her?"

He shook his head. "No. I – I was on the other side of the room."

Oh, amateurs. What I wouldn't give for even Mother's rawest, youngest agent. "That's a shame," I said gently. "Next time, you should pick a position from which you can see and hear better. What did Mistress Karstas do after Madame Keitel gave her the memory?"

The man looked even more terrified. "She lay down on her favorite couch – the really frilly pink one – and started living the memory. It – it looked like she enjoyed _not _enjoying it, you know what I mean? Halfway through, a few ghosts showed up and started trying to suck out her life force. And she – I don't know what she was doing – but she jumped up and grabbed a coat hanger and slashed it through the air, like – like a lightning hook – and the ghosts just scattered like leaves. And then she hung the coat hanger back up, tidily as you please, and lay down and went back to the memory!"

I made some soothing noises to calm him down, then paid him the amount I'd promised plus a small bonus. Fear drained from his face as he stared at the slugs, and I put a hand on his arm and said earnestly, "I need you to continue to keep an eye out for her. Report to me next week, and you'll get the same again."

The archivist, who lived in a tiny Charhollow flat with a wife and three children (yes, I'd tailed him home as well), gulped but slid the slugs into his purse and nodded obediently.

* * *

As for Ash, I shadowed him one evening to the Temple to the Forgotten Gods, not too far from the Old Rail Yard. Like the rest of Coalridge, the temple was old and rundown and black with soot. Vandals had torn off whatever marble veneer they could, and in the wavering light of oil lamps mounted on either side of the door, the naked brickwork resembled raw, oozing wounds. At least someone had trimmed back the weeds around the foundations, lending the Temple an almost respectable air (if you didn't look too hard).

That someone turned out to be the priestess, a tall, slender woman of indeterminate age who wore a brilliant white robe and mask. As Ash marched up the packed dirt path towards the Temple, she came to stand in the doorway, hands clasped serenely before her.

When he saw her, Ash called out familiarly, "Good evening, Ilacille!"

"Good evening, Ash," she greeted him. "What can I do for you?"

"I had some questions about theology," he explained. "I was hoping you could answer them…."  
Their voices faded as they entered. After giving them a few minutes to move away from the entrance, I crept up and peeked around the doorjamb. A shadowy hall gave way to a circular sanctum topped by a dome. Grimy columns, rising like spires from a clutter of boxy shapes, looked like they might date back pre-Cataclysm, although here, too, looters had left their mark. Deep cuts ringed the stone where men had tried and failed to saw through them.

Gathering my cloak closer about me, I dashed down the short hall, plastered myself against the wall, and carefully surveyed the sanctum through the doorway. The room was ringed by shrines – some big, some small, some imposingly complicated, some aggressively simple. After a moment, I figured out that they were organized by theology, almost like a color wheel. In fact, one of the altars near me bore a crudely painted, chipped stone carving of a color wheel.

Near the back of the sanctum, Ash and Ilacille stood by a shrine whose details I couldn't make out, speaking in quiet and reverent voices.

"How do you balance all the gods?" Ash was asking curiously.

"Each has its own cult," she explained. "I mostly maintain the memory of their existence."

After some more theological discussion that I didn't bother to follow, Ash came to the point: "I want to rise in the cult of That Which Hungers."

"I can't necessarily help you gain in the eyes of your mother and sister," the priestess replied gently.

"No, no. That's not what I meant." Ash shook his head emphatically. "I want to interact _directly_ with the god."

In response, Ilacille stooped, picked up something rectangular and flat from the altar of That Which Hungers, and presented it to him ceremoniously. "This is an abacus," she told him. "You use it…so." Her fingers flew, and the light click-click-clicking of beads filled the darkness with an almost hypnotic rhythm. "And now, you present your offering to the god…so."

Tiptoeing into the sanctum itself and ducking behind one of the larger altars, I just barely made out the glint of a glass bottle in Ash's hands, and a blue glow studded with white sparks that flowed softly into a dark bowl that Ilacille held out. Something about that sight reminded me of Kamilin's bravado and loneliness in the tavern in Coalridge, and an unbearable melancholy swept over me. I left Ash to his sacrifice and went to recruit others to tail him.

* * *

The next day, one of the street children brought me word that Ash had been seen in Nightmarket, following around corrupt but legitimate merchants.

The day after that, a Brightstone cabbie reported that Ash was inquiring about the sad, neglected third and fourth children of noble families.

I filed all of that away for future use.


	5. Moving Day

The hour of pearls, crouched outside the Iruvian Consulate, staring up at the constellations while I waited for _him_.

While he failed to appear.

While I watched and shivered and wondered if this torrent of submerged terror and half-drowned guilt was what drove Mother to the window night after night.

Just before dawn briefly eclipsed the stars, I lurched stiffly to my feet and stamped the mud off my boots. Another night of futile surveillance had produced one useful outcome, at least: I'd finally decided what to do about the railcar. True, Faith's ditzy façade hid a deeply troubled young woman with disturbing hobbies. True, Ash was deep to his pitch-black demon-telltale elbow in some ravening god's cult. In the final analysis, however, their extracurricular activities had nothing to do with me personally, and even more importantly, _he_ would never search for me in a graveyard of passenger trains.

Time to tell Madame Bell and Bazso that I was moving out, then.

* * *

Back in Crow's Foot, I identified one of the Lampblack runners, a nine-year-old urchin with a shock of red hair who was contemplating a knot of hungover sailors as if calculating how much coin they had left. Slipping up beside him, I bent over until my head was level with his and advised softly in his ear, "Don't. See that sailor? The one with the tattoo of a snake turning into an owl?"

Caught unawares, he squeaked and jumped, but obediently followed my gaze.

"The tattoo means that he serves under Captain Vaati Ankhayat," I continued in a low voice. House Ankhayat owned half of the Iruvian leviathan hunter fleet and on top of that was bound to Demon Prince Khayat the Wise. "Trust me, you don't want to mess with him."

While I spoke, the sailors turned the corner and faded into the morning mist. Unappreciative of my efforts to save his skin, the urchin scowled fiercely at me. Why did I even bother? With a sigh, I straightened painfully – knife wounds garnered two years ago tended to ache in Doskvol's cold, damp weather – and flipped him one of my last coppers. "Tell Bazso Baz he's inviting me to dinner tonight. He can name the time and place."

The boy pocketed the coin, repeated my message word for word, and then raced off in the direction of the abandoned coal warehouse that served as Lampblack headquarters. Rubbing my side absently, I trudged back to Madame Bell's flophouse to pack.

* * *

Bazso maintained such strict runner silence that I started fretting while I folded blouses and matched up stockings. Had I miscalculated my little power play? Had I actually offended him? To distract myself, I passed the afternoon at the Red Sash Sword Academy training against one of the masters, who beat me handily (but somewhat less handily than last week). Utterly sweaty and disheveled and exhausted, I was limping out the front gate when a runner stopped me and rattled off mechanically, "Bazso says: He-requests-the-honor-of-your-presence-at-dinner-at-the-Leaky-Bucket-at-the-hour-of-honor." Whirling, I checked the clock mounted over the academy entrance – right as it struck half past the twelfth hour.

Bazso had given me exactly thirty minutes' notice for dinner.

Like as not, Madame Bell had already tipped him off that I was leaving – meaning that my attire needed to convey the sentiment: "Yes, I'm declaring my independence from you, but no, I'm not trying to challenge your authority, and nothing is going to change, except that everything already has." Did such an outfit even exist? Cursing in Hadrathi, I sprinted back to my room, where I yanked out all the clothing that I'd spent the morning packing away tidily. Akorosi trousers and Iruvian leggings flew everywhere while I searched frantically for the right costume.

In the end, I settled for a light blue gown that matched both my eyes and his, emphasizing my Skovlander heritage. Its small waistline required me to lace my corset so tightly that I couldn't run any meaningful distance (not that I expected to do any running, of course, but I thought he'd appreciate the gesture). Storing Grandfather in a special compartment in the wall by my bed, I pinned up my hair with a handful of stilettos, strapped a dagger to my forearm, and floated onto the streets of Crow's Foot practically unarmed.

The Lampblacks' favorite tavern, the Leaky Bucket, was technically neutral ground among the gangs of Crow's Foot, an uneasy truce maintained mostly out of respect for its owner. White-haired, wiry Mardin Gull had headed the Crows for decades until he shocked the Doskvol underground by retiring and opening a fully legitimate business. Personally, I thought the gangs honored the demilitarized zone so they could bring in their young scoundrels and exhort them, "Kids, if you work hard and save your coin, you too can someday transcend gang wars! Now get out there and make your quota!"

Tonight, a single glance from the doorway revealed a healthy mix of civilians and scoundrels jostling amiably at the bar. Lining the other three walls were lovingly polished wooden booths, most of which had been claimed by gang members. Long tables filled the rest of the space, occupied by groups of dockers and sailors and the occasional factory hand. In the far corner, a rowdy dice game was underway; from behind the bar, Mardin kept a sharp eye on the gamblers and their beer intake lest they erupt into a brawl. As I slipped off my cloak and draped it neatly over my arm, a particularly raunchy sea shanty rose above the din, drawing laughter and cheers. Half the room joined in lustily and off key. Very off key.

As always, the Lampblacks were easy to spot. Not only did I know most of them by sight, but they all sported variations on the black wool overcoat of the Lamplighters' Guild. Those who could afford one added a battered top hat too. As for their leader – even if I didn't know his favorite corner booth, I could have guessed from the steady increase in Lampblack density. Despite the heat of the common room, Bazso lounged on his bench in his regulation overcoat, a lovely thick waterproof one that all of us coveted, and the elegant top hat that he donned while prowling around on business. Surveying the room alertly, he noticed me almost as soon as I entered the Leaky Bucket and nodded at me to approach. Packed into the neighboring booth with her minions, his second-in-command, Pickett, followed his gaze and glared ferociously. I cast a polite, almost-but-not-quite-triumphant smile at her in passing.

When I reached his booth, Bazso got to his feet courteously, doffed his hat for a gallant bow – and then replaced it on his head.

As he gestured for me to seat myself, he remarked ironically, "A funny thing happened to me this morning. I found myself suddenly seized by the desire to invite you to dinner. It must have happened, oh, around the time Bug showed up with a message."

I caught the hint of warning in his voice but refused to back down – especially not in front of Pickett, who was eavesdropping as hard as she could. "Yes," I replied demurely, smoothing down the back of my skirt and sinking gracefully onto the bench opposite his, "it was quite sweet of you." Then I smiled innocently up at him.

The Lampblacks within earshot drew a collective breath. Pickett turned almost as pale as Ash with fury.

Bazso burst into laughter. Waving at Mardin, he called, "A bottle of nice wine for the lady!"

"Young man, I only serve nice wine," retorted the proprietor.

Still chuckling, Bazso sat down across from me as his people started breathing again. The barmaid materialized with a bottle of dubiously nice red wine, and he went through his usual ritual with the three glasses, after which he handed me my drink like the consummate gentleman.

I countered with my best etiquette. For a few moments, we sipped the wine and dared each other to speak first. Pickett's scowl could have curdled milk.

Bazso held up his glass, swirled the wine, and admired the little fingers that ran down the sides. Then he smiled very deliberately, as if to remind me, "Well, my dear, _you_ requested this meeting."

Setting my glass down delicately and folding my hands carefully on the table, I adopted a casual tone. "I've found a new home. It's great. No rent."

"Really?" asked Bazso neutrally. "And where is this new, great, and rent-free home?"

From the other booths drifted a few gasps. Pickett snickered softly, her sneer saying, "Well, girl, now you've done it."

I didn't dare take my eyes off Bazso's face. "It's over in Coalridge," I said lightly, watching him as alertly as the rest of his gang.

His eyebrows raised very slightly.

"I'm moving into a railcar with some, uh, friends." Uncertain how he'd react to my joining another crew, I fudged the truth a little.

At the lie, Bazso's eyebrows went up even more. "Does this mean you'll crash less often at my place then?" he inquired mildly.

Wait – did he really think? Faith and Ash and me? "No!" I yelped before I could catch myself. "No! That's not what I meant – Of course not!"

He smirked, as if he'd hoped to provoke just such a response.

Reclaiming my dignity, I informed him, "I still need to teach and train at the academy every week." Widening my eyes _à__ la_ Faith, I added, "Classes sometimes run…late. You wouldn't let a girl walk all the way back to the Old Rail Yard on her own, would you? I might get mugged!"

"I pity the mugger," he replied drily. He refilled my glass and then his, then leaned back and studied me, noting my attire. Aided by the corset, I sat ramrod straight, taking shallow breaths and making sure to keep my hands out in the open. "The Old Rail Yard," he mused. "That's Cortland's territory. Well, I suppose it's not too far away." With a sigh, he removed his hat at last.

If it weren't for the corset, I might have sagged with relief, the way some of the younger Lampblacks were doing.

With such perfect timing that I suspected Mardin of keeping a sharp eye on our booth, the barmaid silently re-materialized with plates of steaming hot mushroom-and-eel pies.

"I took the liberty of ordering for you," Bazso said, mostly for the benefit of his people. "I hope you don't mind."

Mind? I was starving! I'd have eaten algae soup – and gratefully too – if that were all he'd ordered. Perhaps guessing at my recent eating habits, or the lack thereof, he mercifully allowed me to devour half of my pie before asking how I'd been and what I'd done since the last time we met. All too aware of Pickett's pricked ears, I spun out the official Kamilin cover story into an entire saga about a hero's tragic, tragic death at the hands of hungry ghosts.

Bazso, who hated specters as much as he loved dramatic tales, listened raptly. When I finally concluded with my narrow escape thanks to the hero's self-sacrifice, he offered, "Perhaps I should send some of the boys to deal with the public hazard."

I couldn't let him do that. "Isn't the whole city a public hazard?" I inquired coquettishly. (Some of the Doskvol-born Lampblacks looked as if they wanted to protest.) In a more business-like tone, I added, "This was no worse than usual. We just – got unlucky. Anyway, how are things here?"

He considered me for a moment, decided to trust my assessment, and shrugged. "It's been quiet lately."

"The same for the Red Sashes," I said. Setting down my fork, I made the quick hand sign that indicated an official report.

"Maybe we should move on them now, then," he mused.

Oh no, that wouldn't do at all. My secret goal – a stepping stone or practice session, if you would – was to _reconcile_ the two gangs. To distract Bazso, I asked quickly, "Why do you and Mylera Klev hate each other so much? It seems…somehow personal."

After toying with his knife for a moment, he lowered his voice and said slowly, "I suppose…. I suppose you can't find two people who are less alike than Mylera and I." Now _that_ I could attest to. "We were both immigrants to Doskvol, both trying to make a name for ourselves, and because we were both newcomers and relatively vulnerable, we found each other's gangs to be the easiest target. At first we just pushed each other around. " Lost in his memories, he looked at me without really seeing me. "Then the killings started. And then it got personal. And then things got ingrained. And then it seemed like we were always looking at each other as the person to beat, maybe because we come from the same place. It's a little like…transcending yourself." Trailing off, he laid down the knife and stared out blankly across the crowded room.

Slowly, to avoid alarming Pickett, I rose, walked around the table, and slid onto the bench next to him. When I leaned my head against his shoulder, his arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me close.

"It's funny," he confessed softly. "When I think of running Crow's Foot one day, it's always Mylera I think of defeating – never the other gangs."

I took a moment to frame my words. "Perhaps," I suggested carefully and equally softly, "you shouldn't focus on one opponent to the exclusion of all others."

Tipping my head back a little, I watched as he processed my words and filed them away for future consideration. Then he snapped back to the present. "Enough of that," he said firmly. "I want to hear more about the ghosts."

So I regaled him with detailed descriptions of the specters and made him gasp at the viciousness of the ghost brawl and, later that evening, went home with him. There, snuggled safely between his sheets, I finally told him the full story.

The next morning, he assigned two Lampblacks to carry my trunk to the Old Rail Yard.


	6. Best Bargaining Practices

The railcar was empty when my porters and I arrived, but two sleeping compartments had already been claimed, as evidenced by their shut doors. Without hesitation, I picked a vacant one at the far end of the car, which afforded the most freedom of movement, and directed the Lampblacks to set down my trunk on the bare floor. Once they'd trundled off to report to Bazso, I set about exploring my new home by lamplight.

About two-thirds of the railcar consisted of a narrow, windowless walkway lined with squeaky sliding doors that opened onto sleeping compartments. Electroplasmic lamps mounted opposite the doors once lit the way, but their glass bulbs had long since shattered and the fine filaments disintegrated. That was just fine with me. I approved of darkness. In each narrow compartment, the skeletons of upper and lower bunks jutted out from one wall, along with a rusty ladder. A grimy, weather-warped window provided a blurry view of derelict passenger coaches, deserted freight cars, and row after row of corroded train tracks.

Both Faith and Ash had already begun to customize their rooms. Faith had chosen her lower bunk for a bed and covered it with a cheery pink bedspread. The upper bunk she used as storage space for items of no particular interest, as well as a frame for gauzy pink bed curtains that fluttered in the draft. In the back corner, she'd wedged a battered wardrobe overflowing with dresses. Most were pink, of course, but I spotted blue and bright yellow ones here and there, and even a supremely scandalous, slinky black gown. On a once-elegant writing desk sat a small, slightly wilted posy of flowers in a chipped vase, with a card in front of it that read, "Welcome home, Isha!"

I left it.

Ash, on the other hand, had chosen his upper bunk for a bed. With the aid of an old wooden door scavenged from one of the Coalridge junkyards, he'd converted the lower bunk into a desk. Tidy stacks of papers and books waited in precisely arranged rows. Leafing through them rapidly, I found detailed accounts of finances, both his own and other people's, plus a volume on the forgotten gods that fell open to the chapter on That Which Hungers. "A jealous, acquisitive deity," warned the entry. Bazso's god, The Empty Vessel, was featured as well, but I didn't have time to read just then.

Past the sleeping compartments, the walkway led into a parlor area with what used to be a bar running along the back wall. The wood was scratched and dull and had suffered some water damage, but I thought a good polish could restore it to respectability (or what passed for respectability in Coalridge, anyway). In the center of the parlor, someone had installed a large, utilitarian table plus one chair, a set that matched only in their collection of chips and scuffmarks. Someone else – almost certainly Faith, unless I'd seriously misjudged Ash – had already tied a big bow on the back of the chair.

Throughout the railcar, raggedy remnants of thin carpeting clung to the floor, threatening to trip anyone unfamiliar with their layout. I'd have to enhance them when I had time.

Later that afternoon, I was combing through a dump in Brickston for furniture, tripwires, and anything else that might make my compartment more habitable when young Bug came puffing up to me. Scowling in an excellent Pickett impersonation, he brandished a crumpled piece of paper.

"This came for you at your old flat," he wheezed, as if it were my fault that he'd had to run so far. "Bazso said to give it to you."

The note, written in Irimina's familiar copperplate handwriting and sealed with her signet ring, contained an invitation to Faith, Ash, and me for a business tea the next morning. Leaving homemaking for another day, I set about tracking down my crewmates.

* * *

In complete defiance of the part about "urgent crew business" and "a possible commission," the very first thing Faith did when she returned to the railcar was pop into her compartment. Then she walked slowly into the parlor, wearing a crestfallen expression and shaking her head reproachfully. "Isha, when someone goes to all the trouble of buying you flowers, you can at least _accept_ them. Is this how you treat all your boyfriends?"

I gave her a carefully confused look. "What flowers?"

Waiting impatiently to hear about a potential financial venture, poor Ash sighed. "Glass said something about a commission?" he prompted, casting a meaningful glance around the threadbare parlor with its single chair. In deference to my delicate nerves, he kept his ungloved hands clasped behind his back.

"What a gentleman!" Faith plopped into the chair and beamed up at him, deliberately interpreting his look as an invitation to sit.

Both Ash and I adopted our tested and somewhat effective dealing-with-Faith strategy, which was to say that we ignored her. Keeping a careful distance from him, I flattened out Irimina's note on the table and let the others read it for themselves.

"Ah, this is most excellent!" pronounced Ash with some satisfaction after he scanned the terse lines. "We're already attracting patrons."

Faith, being Faith, signaled approval in her own inimitable way. Tipping her head to a side, she sang, "I've heard Lady Irimina has _excellent_ taste in tea. I would _never_ turn it down."

Remembering the lady's reaction to her the last time, I urged, "Wear an appropriate dress."

"Why, Isha, I _only_ own appropriate dresses!"

* * *

She didn't, of course.

She went to the crew's first official business meeting with a prospective patron in a calamitously inappropriate dress that – despite its many tiers of pink gauze – barely covered her kneecaps, plus a cream-colored coat that didn't even extend as far down as the dress hem. Oh, and it sported little cream-colored bows on the sleeves. Just because.

Even in the darkness, she shone like an electroplasmic lantern and attracted so many scandalized looks that I had to lead us down the darkest backstreets I could find – no small feat in Brightstone! – so we weren't arrested. Ash, at least, _almost_ passed for nobility in his crisp black suit, top hat, and white gloves, while I donned a high-necked, long-sleeved day dress, hid Grandfather under a long cloak, and fit in perfectly.

As a sign of his quality, Irimina's butler didn't bat an eye when he saw us on his front porch. He simply greeted us politely and ushered us into a parlor where the tea had already been set. Irimina herself was draped dramatically over a sofa, but as soon as she saw us, she sat up straight and picked up the teapot in a matter-of-fact manner. After a spot of perfunctory small talk about the weather, she got down to business.

"I've thought a great deal about the gentleman," she began.

Faith interrupted at once. "Ah, you mean our dear departed companion? What a tragic loss!"

Caught off guard, Irimina had to take a minute to recollect her thoughts. "Yes, him." Regaining her flow, she declared in her lofty, upper-class accent, "I have come to the conclusion that you can be trusted to take care of problems in a permanent sort of way. _I_ have a lot of problems that need to be taken care of in a permanent sort of way. Perhaps we can come to a continuing arrangement? What are your rates?"

Ash's eyes lit up. The devotee of That Which Hungers pretended to ponder the question: "Well, in addition to the base fee, there are certain cleanup expenses to be paid, of course, what with a body to dispose of and all…."

Irimina, who'd probably already researched the going rates, cut in bluntly, "I will offer you six coin. Does that sound reasonable?"

Ash looked at the two of us, silently asking for our opinions. Taking a sip of tea to disguise the motion, I gave a minute nod and made a mental note to teach my crewmates hand signals. "That is acceptable," he answered for us, "although we may renegotiate the rate after the first one."

Setting down her teacup with a clatter, Faith glared at him and declaimed theatrically in Irimina's direction, "Why, a proper assassination takes _years_ of experience! The time and services of a beautiful maiden like myself – " one languid hand rose to her breast – "don't come cheap! Perhaps we can negotiate something extra, say, a favor on the side?" Tilting her head charmingly, she fluttered her eyelashes at the lady, who actually looked intrigued.

While Faith flirted, Ash elaborated on his earlier argument. "While six coin is a sufficient personal rate," he explained earnestly, "it would be remiss of us to risk underpaying the, ahem, appropriate greased palms that helped us along."

Clearly amused by Faith, Irimina leaned back and smiled tolerantly before admitting, "No, you're right. I value discretion greatly. As long as you keep it as quiet as possible – and my name as far away as possible – that could be worth a little extra."

With a naughty expression, Faith riposted, "I keep _all_ of my affairs secret."

Between the two of them, she and Ash succeeded in extracting a promise of eight coin, to be paid on completion of the score. "The target is Merrick Dillingham, the stationmaster at Gaddoc Rail in Nightmarket," Irimina told us. Pressing her lips into a thin line, she said severely, "He has been an impediment to certain business dealings of mine. I would prefer for it to look like an accident – but I'd settle for removal."

Ash empathized wholeheartedly. "We certainly wouldn't want any mercantile dealings to be impeded. Is there anyone else he's impeded who might want him removed?"

After a moment of consideration, Irimina shook her head regretfully. "Not that I can think of. But I wouldn't mind if Elstera Avrathi takes the fall," she offered.

Nor I.

Elstera Avrathi was the Iruvian consul to Doskvol and, if not an actual agent of House Anixis, at the very least an enthusiastic ally. It was at her behest that a gang of cutthroats had ambushed me shortly after I arrived and sent me fleeing into Crow's Foot and Pickett's gentle arms. But for Elstera, I might have made a comfortable living as a clerk in one of the Nightmarket merchant houses, instead of skulking through the criminal underworld as an assassin-for-hire. While I understood the need for Iruvia to maintain a closely coordinated, highly efficient spy network throughout the Shattered Isles in order to keep abreast of Imperial ambitions, I objected when said resources were misallocated towards hunting down _me_.

Also, if the consul were neutralized, _he_ would lose a critical ally.

"That can be arranged." My voice colder than I'd intended, I inclined my head to Irimina and spoke formally, "We will report to you on completion of the task."

She lifted her teacup in a grim toast.


	7. Merrick Dillingham

"What do we know about Merrick Dillingham?" Ash asked, pacing back and forth across our parlor and sounding for all the world like one of my tutors.

After we left Irimina's, we'd detoured through Nightmarket for a preliminary survey of Gaddoc Rail Station. With cargo train after cargo train gliding through the lightning barrier to belch out exotica from all over the Imperium, Dillingham's domain made the Old Rail Yard seem even more forlorn, and home sweet home even more ramshackle. In fact, we were holding our second official crew meeting with me in the lone chair and Faith perched on the edge of the table.

We really needed more chairs.

Since Faith was busy examining a tea stain on her hem, I summarized for Ash, "We know that Dillingham's office is at Gaddoc Rail Station and that he works 'long hours.'" That was Irimina's incredibly precise description of his schedule. "We should tail him for at least a few days. If we learn his route to and from work, maybe we can fake a mugging."

"Or we can poison him," Ash suggested. Doskvolian urban legend associated Iruvians with not only sash fighting and curved swords but also subtle, deadly drugs.

Speaking of Iruvians – "We need to investigate the Avrathi family to identify a scapegoat." (A task I was looking forward to.) "I recommend picking one first and then tailoring our assassination strategy to that individual."

"I like that," Ash said approvingly. "We should start by learning all the names of Elstera's relatives in Doskvol." I could have sketched out the entire Avrathi genealogy for him, of course, but I feigned ignorance. He turned to our last crewmate, who'd been conspicuously silent. "Faith, are you in?"

Dropping her hem, the Whisper faked an exaggerated yawn. "Oooooh, my time is far too valuable for simple surveillance jobs! You two go ahead – I'll be your behind-the-scenes spidery criminal mastermind."

That was fine with me.

* * *

Darkening my skin and hair and donning Iruvian tunics and leggings, I spent the next few days as a fresh-off-the-train immigrant. In Brightstone and Nightmarket, I loitered behind the homes of Elstera's allies and relatives. When servants left after their shifts, I crept up to them timidly and explained in heavily accented Akorosian that I'd just moved to Doskvol. "Might your master need a maid?" I asked hopefully, over and over. "What manner of man is he?"

Through the servant network, I learned that Elstera had a nephew named Rahan who lived in a luxurious townhouse in Nightmarket. He even maintained an office at Gaddoc Rail not far from Dillingham's, from which he managed some sort of import business on her behalf. "Y'know, fancy rugs and cloth and suchlike," shrugged one of his maids, another Iruvian immigrant. My best guess was that House Anixis funneled some amount of low-level courier activity through his office, as a sop to the Akorosi monitoring it for espionage. (At least, that was the tack Father would take. "You mustn't disappoint your opponents," he'd mock.)

"Eh, Master Avrathi ain't so bad," said the kitchen girl, also an Iruvian. "'Course, he don't think of us as _people_, but if you have a problem, he fixes it just so's things run smoothly." Leaning close, she hissed, "It's his _aunt_ you have to watch out for."

I feigned confusion. "His aunt?"

Rolling her eyes at this simpleton, she whispered, "His aunt the _consul_. She handpicks all of us because she's that scared of Akorosi spies."

Well, that put paid to my plans to infiltrate Rahan Avrathi's household.

* * *

Meanwhile, Ash disguised himself as a visiting scholar who specialized in Iruvian political history. As everyone in Doskvol knew, the College of Imperial Science up in Whitecrown had the finest Iruvian studies department in the entire Imperium. Playing on their pride, Ash wormed his way into a group of students there and, under the guise of collaborating on a research project, questioned them about the Avrathi family.

"Rahan Avrathi?" said one student dismissively when Ash brought him up. "Nah, he'll never amount to anything. He's not as experienced as Elstera, not as canny – and nowhere near as hungry."

"_Him_?" asked another incredulously. "That hedonistic peacock? Don't waste your time studying _him_."

Apparently, general consensus held that the consul's nephew lacked both the talent and inclination for his family's grand political tradition. Content with his cushy job handling minor administrative tasks, Rahan devoted his free time to supporting local tailors, courtesans, and restauranteurs – exactly the sort of insignificant relative whom spymasters would suspect of leading a double life.

Rahan Avrathi it was, then.

* * *

Scapegoat selected, Ash and I turned our attention to the target himself. Disguised sometimes as passengers, sometimes as runners, sometimes as clerks from merchant houses, we infiltrated Gaddoc Rail and scrutinized Dillingham's every move. Very quickly, we discovered that he, like Rahan, lived in Nightmarket, albeit in a less luxurious townhouse. On a typical workday, he arrived at his office at the hour of smoke, when the shattered sun glowed briefly through the mist. Unfortunately, even though he walked, the man had a healthy streak of paranoia and varied his route frequently. He then stayed in the station all day, surrounded by scores of eyewitnesses, and finally left work after the evening commuter rush, around the hour of song. Following no schedule we could discern, he either headed straight home or caught a gondola to Silkshore's red-lamp district.

Frustrated, Ash applied for an accountant position at Gaddoc Rail.

* * *

Now we played the waiting game, the bane of Slides everywhere.

While Ash waited for his job interview results, I tailed Dillingham in the mornings and evenings and spent my afternoons settling into the railcar. First on my list was carving out a secret compartment for Grandfather. Next, I set up all manner of traps and warning systems around the entire car and my compartment in particular. (Faith hunted for and triggered as many as she could find, but of course she didn't recognize all of them.) Since Ash kept moping over not driving a harder bargain with Irimina, I put him to better use helping me carry a mattress pad from Charhollow, which we installed in my upper bunk. Another time, we triumphantly bore back two almost-not-broken chairs, casualties of a drunken brawl, that a pub owner had tossed into an alley.

At long last, Gaddoc Rail sent formulaic regrets that at this time they could only make a tentative offer of a future offer if a position should open up.

For the very first time, we convened a crew meeting where all of us had seats.

"How do we want to do this? Should we waylay Dillingham or poison him?" Ash asked, resting his elbows on the table and leaning towards us intensely.

"Yes," replied Faith, sweetly.

I cast a quelling glare at her and edged my chair away from Ash. "Based on how busy his office is, I think waylaying him would be safer."

"We could disguise ourselves as Iruvians then," suggested Ash. "Did you get a good look at the Avrathi livery?"

Did he even need to ask? But I had a better idea. "Yes, but let's dress up as Gualim. That will absolutely petrify the Lord Governor."

"Goo-ah-lim?" Ash carefully sounded out the word, looking perplexed. "I haven't heard of those. What are they?"

"They're the U'Duashan City Guardians," I explained. "They're kind of like the Bluecoats." In a manner of speaking, anyway. Purged of their humanity inside one of the black crystal spires that imprisoned the Demon Princes, the Gualim were swathed in layers and layers of black gauze in an approximation of silken robes, with silver wires running eerily across and into and out of their bodies.

Perking up, Faith enthused, "You can't leave out the part where they serve the Demon Princes! And the Conclave! But mostly the Demon Princes!" Tipping her head to a side, she widened her eyes as if she'd just had an earth-shattering revelation. "Why, Isha, you never told me you had a thing for demons!"

Our resident part-demon steered us back on track. "So if we trick any bystanders into reporting that the Gualim were involved, then the Bluecoats will certainly search all the trains running to Iruvia. We can plant a letter from Rahan on one of these."

That was brilliant. Seconding my thought, Faith applauded rapturously.

"I can buy black cloth tomorrow and put together costumes – " I started to offer.

"Oh, no! Isha, how _could_ you?" cried Faith. "My seamstress would be mortally wounded if I ever wore something she didn't sew with her own two hands! Let me talk to her! You wouldn't be so cruel as to let her waste away from sorrow, would you?"

Open-mouthed, Ash and I stared at her very un-Gualim-like dress for a long moment. Then we just looked at each other and shrugged helplessly. "Sure. Why not?"

* * *

According to my archivist, Faith popped into the Sensorium the next morning to ask Madame Keitel for a memory featuring the Gualim. Unusually, she opted not to experience it on her couch but left with it instead.

A couple days later, she proudly displayed a set of robes made from cheap black fabric with segments of metal wire crudely attached here and there. Although the costumes wouldn't fool a native U'Duashan for one instant, in the dark they should suffice for Doskvolians.

* * *

"Do you see him? Do you see him?"

"No."

Half a second of peace in a shadowy alley near Gaddoc Rail.

"Do you see him _now_?"

"Not yet."

"Mmmmm, how about…_now_!"

"No!"

While Ash mingled with the evening commuters outside the train station and kept a sharp eye on Dillingham's window, Faith and I lurked nearby awaiting his signal. Or, to be more precise, Faith pestered me about when said signal would come and I struggled not to stab her.

Of course, this had to be the one evening that Dillingham worked extra late.

An infuriating hour later, Ash's figure appeared very briefly at the mouth of our alley. Casually, he straightened his hat and flipped up his coat collar, a system we'd arranged to indicate which direction Dillingham had taken, then vanished again.

Utterly focused now, Faith and I flung on our costumes at breakneck speed, checked each other's robes and hoods to make sure they hung straight and hid our faces, and stole out of the alley, keeping to the shadows. Half a block in front of us, Ash strolled openly after the target.

Dillingham wound through the district's eponymous brightly lit, open-air night market, skirted around a park of petrified trees, and passed into a section of windowless private clubs. At last he stopped and cast a suspicious glance up and down the street – we pressed ourselves into doorways just in time – and veered into an unlit, narrow alley between a warehouse and a blank-faced, two-story building.

After a moment, Ash stepped unhurriedly out of his doorway and sauntered after him. Faith hitched up her robes and scampered around the warehouse to cut off the other end of the alley. As for me, I'd already scanned my surroundings and noted a ladder bolted to the warehouse wall. Launching myself at the rungs, I practically flew up to the flat rooftop, where I flattened myself and raised my head just enough to peek over the edge.

Far below me, an oblivious Dillingham was making his way towards a small, featureless door in the windowless building.

Springing to my feet, I sprinted silently along the rooftop until I was right above him. From under my robes, I pulled out a long silver sash, weighted at both tips. Half of it I wrapped loosely around my left hand; the other end I gripped with my right. Then I crouched on the ledge, balancing lightly on the balls of my feet, and scanned the alley one more time.

At the far end, the faintest gleam of metal hinted at Faith's shadowy form creeping towards Dillingham.

From the closer end, Ash strolled on casually, hands tucked into his pockets and head tilted slightly upward as if lost in thought. (I caught his slight nod when he noted that I was in position.)

Dillingham rapped sharply on the door, which opened a crack and spilled out a bar of bright bluish-white light. In its harsh glare, he leaned forward to mouth a password, and the door opened all the way to reveal two burly bouncers. Coquettish laughter and hilarious song poured into the alley. With one last half-wary, half-guilty glance behind him, Dillingham prepared to enter the brothel – and caught sight of Ash.

Whom he'd interviewed for an accountant job at Gaddoc Rail.

"Hey! Aren't you – " he began.

Stopping dead in his tracks, Ash yanked his hands out of his pockets and waved them urgently. "Stationmaster!" he cried, sounding utterly shocked and flustered. "I had no idea I'd see you here! I didn't know that – !" He babbled on incoherently, "Please forgive me, Stationmaster, I hope you don't think that I make a habit of – I mean, I – "

Convinced by the act, Dillingham growled a dismissal and took a step towards the doorway.

I made my move.

Leaping off the rooftop with black robes fluttering and metal wires glinting, I fell full upon Dillingham right in front of the bouncers. Just before we both tumbled to the ground, I unfurled my sash and looped it around his throat.

"Hey!" he yelled, flailing wildly and trying to buck me off. "Help!" His shouts turned into strangled gurgles as I twisted the sash and jerked it tight.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of movement, which gave me barely enough warning to twist out of the way. A huge fist just missed my face. Dropping the sash, I hurled myself to a side and surged to my feet as one of the bouncers lunged for me.

On the cobblestones, Dillingham writhed, choking and clawing futilely at the sash.

At that moment, into the doorway stepped a wealthy-looking, middle-aged woman with her arms wrapped around two handsome young men. Their eyes and mouths opened wide in shock when they saw what was happening in the alley. Any second now, they'd start screaming.

In a swoosh of black robes, Faith erupted from the darkness and dropped onto Dillingham like a specter. Through the eye holes of the Gualim hood, her eyes glittered with ecstasy, and she picked up the ends of the sash almost tenderly.

Dillingham gurgled even more desperately and scrabbled madly at her arms – then convulsed violently and went still.

Faith set down the sash ends on his chest, petted them gently, and made to rise.

The second bouncer roared. Before she could duck, he tackled her bodily to the ground with a sickening crunch.

"Help! Help! Please! It's the Gualim!" shrieked Ash, wringing his hands and running up to the woman and her prostitutes. He grabbed at their arms and shook them for emphasis. "The Gualim are murdering my boss! Get a doctor! Get the Bluecoats! Help!"

His words had the desired effect. The trio snapped out of their shock and started screeching mindlessly, tripping over one another in their mad retreat. Inside the brothel, screams began to multiply: "It's the Gualim!" "The Gualim are here!" "They've come to kill us all!"

Their panic spread even into the alley, where my bouncer hesitated with his fist cocked. Taking advantage of his distraction, I backed away cautiously and slid Grandfather out, keeping it concealed beneath my robes.

Ash threw himself to his knees beside Dillingham and felt for a pulse while howling indignantly, "Incompetent mongrels! Bring a doctor here yesterday!"

"Hey! What are you doing to him?" called my bouncer suspiciously. His bulk moved away from me.

Still pinned under her bouncer, Faith smiled slightly, as cool as if she were having tea at the Kinclaith mansion. All around us rose a dense, icy, blue-tinged fog that materialized straight out of the ghost field. Realizing too late what she had done, the second bouncer swung blindly at her, but she contorted her shoulders sideways and his fist struck the cobblestones by her head.

His roar of pain was eerily muted by the fog.

My bouncer spun around. "Gunner!" he called urgently. "You okay?"

"Aaaaargh!" came Gunner's response.

While he clutched his hand and moaned, Faith wriggled free with a rip of fabric and dashed towards me, holding her shoulder at an odd angle.

Crouched over Dillingham's body, Ash was still shouting about imbeciles who couldn't see that a man needed medical treatment _right away_. "Do I need to do everything myself?" he demanded. "Stay with him! _I'll_ go fetch a doctor!"

It sounded like he had everything under control.

I rammed Grandfather back into its sheath, whirled, and pelted for our meeting spot.

* * *

By the time Ash arrived at the bridge to Coalridge, I'd already torn off my Gualim costume and was helping Faith ease hers over a dislocated shoulder.

At my inquiring glance, he merely nodded once. "Yes."

Stepping up on Faith's other side, he helped pull the robes over her head and pack them into her satchel.

"What charming roommates I have! You really mustn't spoil me like this," she dimpled, but the frivolity sounded slightly forced.

As our adrenaline ebbed away, we walked home slowly side by side. Ash mused, "It's odd that we didn't hear a bell." Within Doskvol, every death was marked by the peal of a bell at Bellweather Crematorium. Simultaneously, a deathseeker crow would launch from the belfry and lead the Spirit Wardens to the corpse so they could destroy its spirit before it rose as a ghost. "I don't think it rang for Kamilin either, did it?"

"No," I said slowly. "I don't think so. But I assumed that I just missed it in all the chaos."

"Oh, the delightful chorus of death bells! When shall I hear you again!"

"And we didn't hear it tonight either," Ash persisted. "That can't be coincidence."

I reached out with my mind to the sword by my side. _Grandfather? Is this your doing?_

Something within the metal stirred. _Family honor must be upheld_.

I took that to mean that Grandfather deemed it too humiliating to the family name if I should be arrested for murder.

To Ash, who always saw through lies, I replied very carefully, "I'm not positive what's going on, but I don't think the bells will be an issue for us."

He gave me a sharp look but seemed to decide to trust me for now. "Well, tomorrow we can pay a visit to Lady Irimina and collect our fee."

True, we'd fulfilled all of her requirements for the score: The impediment to her "business dealings" had been removed, her name kept out of the matter, and her rival implicated in the murder.

Even now, a letter on the train to Iruvia awaited Bluecoat attention:

_My noble Liege and Lady,_

_The deed is done as you ask. In time I will rise in rank to execute the next stage._

_Your loyal servant,_

_R.A._

It was done, indeed.


	8. The Silver Stag Casino

The sword academy looked as it always did. A large mansion abandoned during the long-ago flight of the gentry, it remained in remarkably good shape (for Doskvol) thanks to the Red Sashes' ministrations. When Mylera Klev took over as head of the academy, she had elaborately embroidered, ornamental silk sashes imported from Iruvia and hung around the marble foyer. Functional crimson sashes were draped over the balustrade that ran up both sides of a grand staircase and all around the second floor. Along the hallways, massive oil paintings of famous Iruvian battles alternated with giant scarlet draperies and electroplasmic lights. Naturally, with all this fancy décor, the gang enforced strict rules against fighting outside practice rooms. Urban legend had it that if you started a conflict out of bounds, the nearest Red Sash or swordmaster would snatch a sash off the balustrade and summarily strangle you.

I strode straight through the foyer to one of the beginner classrooms, a former ballroom on the ground floor, where I found my students busily stretching and warming up. Last week, I'd divided them into two lines to practice attacking and retreating, and now a third of the class was working on these drills. At my entrance, all of them stood to attention.

"Today I have a treat for you," I proclaimed. With a slow, dramatic motion, I drew Grandfather and rotated it gently in the air so the bluish-white lights glinted and danced along the length of the blade.

At the sight, the Iruvians in the class gasped. Even if they didn't recognize the sword itself, they could tell that it was a precious heirloom. Urgent whispers erupted among the students.

I waited patiently. When I had their full attention once more, I announced, "You may each face _me_ today. Who wants to be first?"

Dead silence. The students writhed, torn between their desire to test themselves against such a fine sword, and their fear of getting demolished before their peers.

Mercilessly, I prowled through their ranks, meeting their eyes and daring them to volunteer. "Phin Strathmill," I said at last, pointing Grandfather at a dark-haired boy, the fifth son of Lord Strathmill. "En garde."

Swallowing nervously, Phin stepped forward and clumsily raised his blunt practice sword.

I saluted with Grandfather – and stabbed at his chest without warning.

Eyes wide, the boy jumped back a step – but when his sword flashed up to block Grandfather, his movements suddenly turned smooth and polished, and with sure steps, he drove me ever backward across the ballroom. Through the double doors I retreated, fighting grimly to keep his practice sword from my throat.

Right before my eyes, Phin's dark brown hair lightened into pale blond, his grey eyes shifted towards blue, and then _he_ was before me, wearing the ceremonial robes in which I'd seen him last. With a familiar smile, he scythed at me with a curved blade.

"Surrender," he advised calmly, forcing me down the hallway. "You've never won a match against me. Even Grandfather can't save you."

I had no breath left to respond. Barely blocking his strikes, I stumbled and stumbled again. All of a sudden, my boot heel caught on the edge of one of those Iruvian rugs Mylera insisted on keeping everywhere, and I tumbled backwards onto the floor, losing my grip on Grandfather. It clattered once on the floorboards and melted into blackness.

Paralyzed with terror, I stared up at him as he raised that curved blade.

Behind him, a foot-high statue of She Who Slays in Darkness bared her teeth at me. "Run, little one," she hissed – but I couldn't move.

The blade came down.

* * *

I woke with a gasp, heart pounding.

After a moment, I realized that my clothing was soaked through with sweat and my fingers were clenched around Grandfather's hilt. Forcing myself to release it, I lay flat on my back, staring blindly at the dark ceiling and drawing one deep breath after another. It was just a dream, I told myself, just a dream.

And yet.

And yet – I'd made a mistake, a terrible mistake.

Yesterday afternoon, I really had brought Grandfather to the academy, and I really had used it to teach my students. They'd been working so hard and advancing so quickly that I thought they deserved a reward…. But if any of them mentioned the sword to their families or friends, and they mentioned it to _their _families or friends, then word would eventually filter through to Elstera and _he _would know exactly where and when to find me. Hadn't I just criticized Kamilin for keeping a regular schedule? Hadn't I dismissed him as an amateur who deserved to be assassinated? Hubris. The gods detested it.

But quitting my job wasn't an option. For one thing, I'd signed a contract with Mylera, and she wasn't the sort to take contract breaking with equanimity. For another, Bazso relied on my reports to keep abreast of Red Sash plots. And for a third, there was my pet project, the one neither Bazso nor Mylera suspected. I'd gotten this far already. I couldn't just abandon it.

I'd monitor the situation, I promised myself. Crow's Foot might not be big, but it was twisty and incredibly densely packed, and I had my allies. _He _probably couldn't ever find me. And if anything ever felt _off_, I'd disappear from the district, maybe even flee the city.

* * *

"Morning, Ash."

When I trudged out into the parlor after a few more hours of tossing and turning, Ash had colonized every square inch of table with tidy stacks of silver slugs. With his notebook open and pen at the ready, he was busily counting out more slugs from Irimina's purse. Then, with ritualistic formality, he swept all the little stacks together, toppling them and letting the coins clink and tumble into one big pile, which he reverently counted back into the purse one slug at a time.

That done, he nodded at me. "Morning, Glass."

In his notebook, I saw columns and columns of tidy numbers calculating the future values of two coin invested at different rates of compound interest.

"What are you up to?" I asked curiously, sliding into the chair to his left. "Are you planning to invest the crew savings or your own?" By consensus, we'd divided Irimina's fee into four equal portions – two coin for each of us, and the last two for the crew coffers.

"No…well, maybe sometime, but not right now." Ash drew the purse strings tight and closed his notebook. "This is a ritual to honor my family's god, That Which Hungers," he explained. "I don't know though…. Maybe I'm doing it wrong, because it all feels a little empty, somehow." Sounding frustrated, he said, "I wish I understood more about the deeper meaning of these rituals!" He frowned in my direction without really seeing me.

Theology was no strength of mine. "Well," I told him drily. "I'm afraid I can't help you. Not unless you need to stab something."

His eyes lit up. "Actually, I do!"

I cocked my head, wondering if he planned to assassinate his way up through the ranks of the cult of That Which Hungers. The strategy did seem appropriate, somehow.

At my expression, he hastily added, "Not literally! In a _metaphorical_ sense, of course. That Which Hungers is jealous of the Golden Stag. That's the god of wealth."

I knew that already, thanks to his book, but I affected otherwise. "Aaaah, I see."

Ash, naturally, saw right through the pretense but let it stand. "A lot of merchants in Nightmarket worship the Stag," he explained. "I believe it would be pleasing to my god if I bought out or financially ruined one of the Stag's major donors."

That did seem like a job for a Slide. "Do you have a target in mind?"

"What do you think of gambling and casinos, Glass?"

I'd seen too many families from all social classes ruined by gambling addictions. "They're a blight on society," I replied promptly. "The odds are always in the house's favor."

Ash nodded approvingly, as if he'd hoped for this answer. "Well, Helene, the proprietress of the Silver Stag Casino, is a great devotee of the Golden Stag. I've already scoped out her business – "

From the walkway drifted Faith's enthusiastic voice, "Gambling is a mortal sin!"

The rest of her emerged into the parlor, and she skipped – a little stiffly – across the room to plunk herself on the table next to Ash's notebook. Picking it up, she riffled haphazardly through the pages. "Soooo – what are we doing to this shameless purveyor of vice and sin? Are we lynching her? Are we feeding her to the fishes? Are we chasing her into the marshes?"

"_What_ marshes?" I muttered.

"Actually," said Ash patiently, "I was wondering whether we can convince Irimina to put her on the list."

"Well, Irimina isn't exactly running out of targets for us," Faith remarked. She laid the notebook back on the table, wincing very slightly at the motion. As soon as she noticed me watching her, she grinned and declaimed, "Such a vicious woman is a lady after my own heart! Oh, and her money too, of course!"

Calmly, Ash pointed out, "She _will_ run out of money eventually. I've already checked her finances."

"If my beloved, beautiful lady is going to run out of money, then it's better if _you_ pay us," retorted Faith with more shrewdness than I'd given her credit for.

Evidently having no intention of hiring his own crewmates for a score, Ash turned to me inquiringly. "How about you, Glass? Are you in?"

Did I want more intelligence on a potential target – and Ash himself? Did he even need to ask? I gave him a curt nod. "How do the Silver Stag Casino patrons typically dress? Do I need to change?"

With a practiced eye, Ash assessed my default outfit of collared shirt, dark coat, and straight-leg trousers. "No, that will do. Just act more arrogant and you'll fit right in."

As we left the railcar, Faith called out merrily after us, "Have fun, kids! I _won't_ wait up for you!"

* * *

During the entire walk through Coalridge and half of Nightmarket, Ash harangued me about how ruthlessly the evil Helene preyed on those entangled in the coils of impulse and addiction. I nodded along and took mental notes, both on the proprietress herself and on my crewmate. Personally, I thought Ash was much more offended by Helene's religious than business practices.

In the casino, we split up. Exchanging a handful of silver slugs for chips, I tried out the various card games on offer: whist, euchre, and the aptly-named beggar-my-neighbor. Playing just well enough to stay in the games, I observed the staff and clientele. The Silver Stag Casino obviously catered to a mix of nouveaux riches and nobility on the decline, with all the social tension that that particular blend entailed. Catering to the snobbery of both groups, Helene provided elegant furnishings, sumptuous food, and attractive staff in sharp uniforms. Pretending to be an impoverished minor noble, I joined a group of aristocrats making side bets on card games while hoping that an heir or heiress to a mercantile fortune would fall for their titles.

Meanwhile, Ash played a couple rounds of five-card stud, made a show of losing badly, wailed about how his family was going to disown him, and then trudged dejectedly to the bar. There, other patrons betrayed by Lady Luck welcomed him and comforted him with many a tale of woe. A couple even featured Irimina's younger brother Roethe, which certainly explained more than it didn't about the state of the Kinclaith finances and Irimina's investment in removing impediments, so to speak.

For supper, we feasted on Helene's underpriced buffet and considered ourselves well remunerated for our losses at the gambling tables.

* * *

Contrary to her assurance, when we returned to the railcar late that night, Faith greeted us from her favorite perch on the parlor table. With an impish smile that definitely looked forced, she asked brightly, "Does either of my adorable comrades have a doctor friend?"

"Oh my!" Ash gasped, hurrying to her side. "Are you all right? What's the matter?"

"Well, you see, some of my bones aren't quite in the right place." Gingerly, Faith flattened out her puffed sleeve to show us a deformed right shoulder.

"That's dislocated! Has it been like that since the score?" Ash demanded. "You haven't seen anyone about it?"

He made as if to examine it, but Faith twisted out of the way with a dimpled smile.

"Why, yes! Yes, in fact it has been like this since the score! I just noticed!"

I sighed. "I know someone," I said reluctantly. "I'll take you first thing tomorrow morning."


	9. The Leaky Bucket

"Oh my gosh, Isha, where have you brought me? Is it a burrow for bandits? Is it a retreat for robbers? I mean, just look at how dark and shadowy and greasy and sticky it is!"

I very nearly shoved Faith back out of the Leaky Bucket. "Keep your voice down!" I hissed. If any of the regulars here took offense to her commentary – or existence, for that matter – we were going to have much more serious problems than a dislocated shoulder.

"No, no, no – you misunderstand me! I love this place! I mean, is that a _bloodstain_?"

I followed her gaze to a patch of floor under one of the bar stools. The splintered wood indeed looked as if it had been reddened by blood sometime in the distant past, before Mardin took over the place and brokered his DMZ. The bar stool had a pair of legs next to it. I followed them up to meet Bazso's inquiring gaze.

With an apologetic duck of the head, I towed my crewmate across the room. Thank all the forgotten gods that the tavern was practically empty so early in the morning. Most of those present were Lampblacks on business. The entire way to the bar, Faith craned her head this way and that, banging into tables and gawking around at all the gang members, who gawked right back.

"They're so totally lovable!" she enthused. A few of the more grizzled veterans blinked, not having been called "lovable" since about the age of three (and probably not even then).

During our final approach to the bar, Bazso straightened up and tipped his hat politely to both of us. "What brings you and your _friend_ here, Isha?" he asked courteously.

Please let the doctor be around. I didn't think I could endure one more moment of Faith. "Is Sawbones around?"

"Are you hurt?" he demanded, scrutinizing me for signs of injury.

In reply, I jerked a disgusted thumb at my crewmate, who still hadn't finished gaping at his gang. She tugged on my arm. "Aren't they the cutest, Isha? Aren't they just the best? Oh, they're so delightfully lovable!"

"More lovable than _you_," I muttered.

"Oh, Isha, you say the sweetest things!" In a flurry of pink silk and lace, she glommed onto me, embracing my arm and beaming angelically.

Behind the bar, Mardin made a strangled sound that might have been a chuckle and hastily ducked down to rummage among his bottles. Bazso simply raised one eyebrow. Gritting my teeth, I extricated myself while casting "Please save me now!" glances at him.

Looking half amused and half bemused, he called out, "Henner, fetch Sawbones."

A moment later, the Lampblack doctor strode out of a back room, still rolling down his sleeves. A sheepish-looking thug limped out after him, a bandage around one hairy calf. "What is the problem here?" the doctor inquired, looking at Bazso, Faith, and me in turn.

If I let Faith explain, we'd be here all day. "She – " I began.

She didn't let me finish. "Well, you see," she exclaimed with fake earnestness, "some of my bones aren't in the right place and I'd like them to be!" She turned sideways and flattened the bows on her shoulder so he could see its outline.

Matter-of-factly, Sawbones confirmed her diagnosis. "Yes, that does appear to be the case." Delicately probing the joint with his fingertips, he said without glancing up, "Mardin, a shot of whiskey, please?"

The proprietor slammed one down on the bar. Faith picked it up, gave it a cursory examination, decided to skip the rhapsodizing, and downed it in one gulp. With horrified fascination, Bazso, Mardin, Sawbones, and I all watched as her eyes teared up and her mouth opened wide. She just barely kept herself from sputtering.

"All right, come with me, miss." Sawbones escorted her into the back room and shut the door firmly.

Bazso watched them go, then shook his head a little and turned back to me. Picking up the bottle of whiskey, he put a hand on the small of my back. "Come, Isha, have a seat. You look as if you need a break." He guided me to his usual booth, where he poured us each a glass. Heaving a sigh of relief, I leaned my head back, closed my eyes, and sipped it. "So that's one of your new railcar-mates?"

I moaned and opened my eyes again. "Yes," I replied ruefully.

"She's certainly an…original character," he observed mildly.

"_Yes_," I repeated, with feeling.

From the back room came an ear-splitting shriek.

"So how is the new place working out?"

Dodging the unspoken question – "Are you going to move back to Crow's Foot now?" – I shrugged. "It's fine. Been doing a little decorating." With traps and tripwires. Dispensing with subtlety, I changed the topic. "Last time, you never finished telling me why you and Mylera hate each other so much."

"You're still on about that?" he asked in a neutral tone.

I downed the rest of my whiskey and raised him an eyebrow.

After a pause, he said, "Well, you know me," and gestured at the empty glass on the table. "Mylera worships She Who Slays in Darkness." He grimaced. "That cult," he pronounced with distaste, "has sold out to the Church of the Ecstasy of the Flesh. It has curried a relationship with them for _protection_."

From Ash's many theological treatises, I'd gathered that the Church of Ecstasy was itself a cult, albeit a successful one that had achieved state religion-hood at the expense of the Empty Vessel. One author also remarked that the Church of Ecstasy honored no gods, and speculated that its public humanist face was but a façade for dark rituals and demon worship.

"Tell me more about the Empty Vessel," I said. Ash's book on forgotten gods had vaguely alluded to an ancient practice of hollowing devotees, or removing their spirits and leaving only an empty living body. I sincerely hoped that the practice had died out along with the cult's influence.

His face lighting up, Bazso opened his mouth to launch into a long explanation. At that moment, the door to the back room swung open and we heard Faith saying to Sawbones, "You're as kind as you are beautiful!" Catching sight of me, she waved cheekily and bounced towards the booth.

At the same time, the front door of the Leaky Bucket banged open. In stormed Pickett at the head of a knot of Lampblacks dragging a scruffy man in torn docker clothing who cursed and fought every step of the way.

"Bazso!" Pickett snapped. "You have to see this."

"Now is not a good time," he replied tersely.

"No. You have to see this _now_." She stomped over with her prize. "I _told_ you someone was sabotaging supplies down at the docks. We caught him."

Pushing a Lampblack out of the way, she seized the docker by the back of the neck and slammed him face first onto our table, narrowly missing my whiskey glass. Then she roughly yanked down his collar to reveal a bee tattoo – the symbol of the Hive.

Bazso's face went grim. "You're right. Take him to the back." He was already sliding out of the booth and straightening his top hat. I, too, stood quickly, calculating how best to get into that interrogation chamber.

Faith sidled up to me and whispered in my ear, "I _love_ getting involved in other people's tragedies."

I stamped on her foot. She ignored me.

For the benefit of the tavern-goers, she proclaimed, "His bee tattoo is so cute! But don't you think it would look better if he added some flowers next to it? Maybe a peony for devotion, and a spray of asphodel for 'my regrets follow you to the grave'?"

Maybe Bazso should turn the torture over to _her_.

The Lampblacks were already dragging their captive across the room, the few civilian customers hurriedly getting out of their way and going up to Mardin to pay their tabs. Leaving Faith behind, I bustled after the gang as if I should by rights aid in the interrogation.

Of course, Pickett had to notice me angling to slip through the doorway. Seizing my elbow, she shoved me backward. "No. This is Lampblack business."

Under Bazso's watchful eye, Henner and the others were tying the prisoner to a sturdy chair while he kicked and twisted. Since the leaders of the Hive, wealthy merchants all, never dirtied their own white-gloved hands, and since he didn't look like one of their elite mercenaries, I guessed that he really was a docker.

"Bazso," I appealed. "Bazso, I can help!"

Glancing away from the prisoner for a moment, he met my eyes, made a quick decision, and nodded curtly. "She stays," he ordered Pickett, who heaved a sigh of disgust and grabbed my elbow again, this time to yank me into the room.

"Stay out of the way," she snapped, pushing me roughly into a corner.

Unnoticed by the second-in-command, Faith strolled right in after us, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a girl in a frilly pink dress to attend a brutal gang interrogation.

And maybe, for her, it was.

She observed the proceedings with a disapproving expression and critiqued their technique without bothering to keep her voice down. "Oooh, that's not elegant at all." "No, no, if they twisted his arm and bent his finger the _other _way at the same time, it would hurt so much more." "Personally, I'd use needles for that. Daggers are so _pass__é_, don't you think?"

I blanked my face and spoke not a single word.

I was remembering.

* * *

Two years ago.

A dank and dirty office in the Lampblack headquarters. Streaks of blood, not all of it mine, staining the moldy floorboards and soaking my tunic and leggings as I curled, fetus-like, beside a broken chair.

Overhead, on an old writing desk behind a wall of hard-faced thugs, lay Grandfather. _I can help you, child. I've helped you before._

_No._

A callused hand seized my hair and forced my head back, nearly breaking my neck. Venomous grey eyes glared out of a weather-beaten face. The woman who headed the interrogation demanded harshly, "Are you ready to talk now?"

I batted feebly at her hands. "Please, I really don't know what you're talking about." My words came out in a hopeless whisper.

Without releasing my hair, she struck me so hard across the face that my vision went black.

_Is _this_ how a member of your line dies? Beaten to death by common thugs in a filthy coal warehouse in the middle of nowhere? Just reach out for me, child. _

_No…._

But my resolve was weakening, and Grandfather knew it.

A booted foot kicked me in the stomach, and I screamed and balled up and tried to protect my head as the blows rained down.

Through the pain, I heard movement from the direction of the door. The bodies that pressed around me, beating me, kicking me, backed away abruptly, leaving me gasping painfully for breath.

The woman rasped, "Bazso, she's a tough one."

A man's voice replied, "Let me have a look." Footsteps vibrated the floorboards and came to a stop next to me. I whimpered and huddled up even tighter. Grandfather battered at the edges of my mind.

To my surprise, a gentle hand brushed back my bloody hair, and I timidly peered up – right into a pair of light blue eyes. Instinct made me jerk back and half-scramble to a sitting position before I realized that it wasn't _him_, just another thug, albeit one disguised as a gentleman in a foppish silk top hat and tidy brown waistcoat.

Some of my relief must have shown on my face, because the man – Bazso, the woman had called him – sat back on his heels and gave me a considering look.

"You're not from around here," he observed mildly.

"Obviously not," came the woman's scornful voice. "She's a filthy _red sash_. Although what she's doing in _our_ territory she refuses to say."

"_Are_ you a red sash?" he asked me calmly.

My temper flared. "How can I be a sash of any sort, red or otherwise? I'm a human, last time I checked." My little speech might have been more impressive if it hadn't come out as a hoarse croak.

Nonetheless, the woman was outraged. "Why, you little – "

"Pickett." Bazso, who must be her boss, lifted one hand and cut her off. Still scrutinizing me, he asked, "So you don't know what a red sash is?"

"Besides a particularly gaudy fashion accessory?" I retorted, then braced for a slap.

Instead, he smiled very faintly and stood. "It's all right," he told the others. "She's not one of them. You can let her go." He took a few steps towards the doorway, stopped, and returned to crouch next to me. "Have Sawbones take a look at her," he directed over his shoulder. Then, to me, "Here, miss. Buy yourself some new clothing. It's not safe to go around this area dressed like that." He knotted a fistful of silver slugs into a handkerchief, pressed it into my hand, and strode out of the room.

* * *

I liked to think that Pickett couldn't have broken me.

I liked to think that I was tougher than this docker, who was groaning and cursing and teetering on the edge of surrender thanks to the same "inelegant" treatment I'd endured.

This time, though, it was Bazso who grabbed the man's hair and forced his head back until I thought his neck would break. It was Bazso who leaned close and hissed, "Are you ready to talk now?"

"Yes!" blubbered the man. "Yes! Oh, yes! Please!"

Relaxing his hold just a little, Bazso demanded, "Who do you work for?"

"The Hive!" cried the man. "The Hive! Honest!"

Beside me, Faith tsked, "Now, personally, I think psychological torture is just so much more refined. And cleaner. Definitely cleaner." She nodded at the blood spattered all over the floor.

Pickett ground her teeth and glared meaningfully at Henner, as if she wanted him to throw both of us out. Poor, loyal Henner looked as if he couldn't fathom who Faith was and why she was present – but Bazso didn't seem to object and Bazso knew best.

If the head of the Lampblacks overheard Faith's running commentary on his techniques, he gave no sign of it. Intensely, he asked the prisoner, "And why does the Hive want to interfere with my business down at the docks?"

"They want to take over! They're expanding! They want the docks! They want to push you and the Red Sashes out, or make you pay them! That's all I know! Honest!"

After a few more questions, Bazso agreed that, indeed, the man had honestly told us everything he knew. Clapping him on the shoulder, he said approvingly, "Good man."

With a nod at Pickett and Henner, he rolled down his sleeves, straightened his waistcoat, and ushered the rest of us back out into the common room.

* * *

A couple days later, my hand-wringing archivist reported that Mistress Karstas had appeared at the Sensorium again, and this time he'd positioned himself so he could hear her request. "She wanted a memory of a gang interrogation," he whispered, as if terrified that Faith would pop up behind him and subject him to one. "From the perspective of the _interrogee_."

Somehow, that didn't surprise me. "Did you have one?"

Gulping, he nodded. "Madame Keitel gave her a strange look but invited her into the archive to pick one herself. She chose a really…horrible one. Lots of…beatings. And blood." After a pause to collect himself, he added, "I thought maybe you'd want to know – a while back, something happened to Madame Keitel. Someone beat her up. Mistress Karstas has been asking questions about that."

When I returned to the railcar, Ash told me offhandedly that Faith had borrowed a coin from the crew coffers for her personal projects.


	10. Tea with Irimina

Evidently, Irimina deemed our removal of her first impediment sufficiently discreet, because she soon sent a note to the railcar inviting us for another business tea. Since the weather was so "warm" that a heavy cloak might draw attention from the fashionistas of Brightstone, I opted for a day dress with a large crinoline, under which I hid Grandfather and miscellaneous weaponry. The steel hoops themselves functioned as armor. Far from appreciating the armory suspended around my legs, Faith homed in on the wonderful pouffiness of the skirts.

"Where did you get that?" she asked curiously, circling me so she could admire the precise tailoring.

"This old thing?" I answered in a mocking imitation of a society lady. "I've had it forever."

"I hope that one day I will have one too! I mean, just look at that silk – I can tell from the weave alone that it's imported from Iruvia, but the shade of blue is something you only achieve with a dye from a shellfish found only off the coast near Alduara…." She blathered on in that vein for a while, tagging along and blocking my way while Ash and I performed one last sweep of the railcar.

"Don't let the door catch your ruffles on the way out," I snapped.

Nothing daunted, Faith spent the entire trek to Brightstone haranguing us about how to identify lace from different isles. Then, during the short walk from Irimina's front door to the parlor, she lectured us about the best types of fabric to use for settee cushions. "Like that!" she exclaimed, pointing at the ones positioned artfully under our employer. "Lady Irimina has impeccable taste in home furnishings!"

Sure, whatever. In _my_ home, we preferred elaborately carved, un-cushioned redwood furniture, the better for enforcing good posture and alertness.

Languidly rising to a sitting position so we had time to admire her figure, Irimina smiled very faintly at Faith and asked us, "Would you like some tea?"

Ash managed to say, "Yes – " before Faith jumped in.

"Why, there is _little_ I'd love _more_." She winked suggestively at the lady, who almost tittered.

Once we each had a dainty little cup of tea – an Iruvian blend of reasonable but not spectacular quality – Irimina got down to business. "Do you have any objections to killing an aristocrat?" she inquired conversationally.

Well, no. Why would we?

"That depends!" Faith tilted her head to a side, as if thinking very hard indeed. "Are they _cute_?"

But for her impeccable manners, Irimina might have spat out her tea. Looking appalled and revolted, she replied flatly, "_No_."

Faith lounged back in her loveseat. "Well, that's all right, then."

"Who is it?" I asked, trying to steer us back on track.

"Lady Vhetin Kellis, the wife of Lord Kellis. He's one of the leviathan hunter captains." I nodded along, trying to hide my impatience. "She goes to a great deal of parties – all thrown in the name of charitable work, naturally – and attends the theater regularly. Spiregarden Theater here in Brightstone, of course. In short, there is nothing to distinguish her from any other frivolous society lady – except for blackmail."

Ash pursed his lips censoriously. "Blackmail? We can't have that. But if we simply remove her, is there a dead man's switch?"

Irimina shook her head. "I don't know. But she claims she hasn't told her husband."

"We'll deal with it," I promised.

"Parties, charities, and theater," remarked Ash scathingly. "She sounds like a drain on society."

Obviously the part-demon Tycherosi weren't into charitable causes, but Irimina looked as if she rather agreed. "She's involved in an orphanage in Crow's Foot," she volunteered. "Strathmill House, I believe it's called. She hosts _tea parties_ to raise funds for it."

"That's even worse! Not only does she waste her own money, but she gets others to throw theirs away too!"

Ash's protest provided the perfect segue into the matter of our fee. Perhaps her brother had been gambling again, because Irimina offered only six coin for the removal of this blackmailing impediment. At which Ash asked, all innocence and concern, "Was our service last time not satisfactory?"

After some rapid mental calculations, she capitulated graciously. "Will eight coin be sufficient?"

"It does seem in line with our continued quality," Ash agreed, then looked inquiringly at Faith and me in turn.

Since the last score, I'd worked out a rudimentary system of hand signals, which both Ash and Faith had memorized quickly, so I signed "Yes" under cover of picking up my teacup. Faith, on the other hand, had obviously decided that flirting with Irimina – or annoying me – trumped discretion. She just smiled and nodded openly.

Our business concluded, Ash and I rose as soon as we finished our tea, but Faith stayed right where she was, batting her eyelashes at our client. The lady rang for her butler to show us out and considered Faith, who didn't look like she intended to go anywhere. "Another round of tea, please," Irimina ordered.

Under the pretext of adjusting my boot, I urged Ash and butler to go ahead and lingered just outside the doorway. My efforts paid off. From the parlor drifted Faith's remark, "I haven't had such good tea since I was an acolyte in the Church of Ecstasy."

"_You_ were in the Church?" Irimina sounded startled, echoing my own thoughts.

"Yes, just for a little while…." I could practically see Faith's pout. "You know, it's not for finding pleasures."

"No, no, it really isn't…." Very cautiously, Irimina probed, "Are you still faithful?"

Flirtatiously, Faith replied, "I'm faithful to _many_ things, including you."

In a coy tone I'd never heard from her, Irimina admitted, "I have secrets the Church would look down on."

Faith dismissed her concerns with an airy, "And the Church has secrets _I_ look down on. If you come over here, I'll happily whisper them in your ear." Then she burst into laughter as if she'd exceeded even her own tolerance for silliness.

Irimina didn't chuckle. Instead, she said even more carefully, "Remember the first gentleman?"

"Why yes, how could I possibly forget him? He was so tragically devoured by hungry ghosts!"

As if determined to finish her confession, Irimina continued doggedly, "I, too, have an interest in ghosts. After all, who wouldn't want to live forever?"

Teasingly, Faith replied, "I'm afraid we're going to have to fundamentally disagree on that."

There ensued such a long pause that I risked peering around the doorframe. On opposite ends of the loveseat, the pair sat angled away from each other, looking inexpressibly sad.

Then Faith faked a cheeky grin and diverted the conversation onto lighter topics.

Footsteps heralded the arrival of a maid with fresh tea and scones, so I ducked around a corner and scurried out to the foyer, where Ash was waiting awkwardly next to the coat rack and the butler. "Sorry!" I exclaimed breathlessly. "I got lost! This house is too big!"

They both pretended to believe me.

* * *

Perhaps a half hour after our return, Faith pranced into the railcar looking insufferably pleased with herself.

"You were gone for a long time," Ash commented mildly. "That tea was very tasty, wasn't it?"

"The house is _full_ of tasty things," Faith replied archly.

I filed that away for future consideration, alongside her confession that she'd been a member of the Church of Ecstasy and Irimina's revelation that she sought immortality. When Faith gave me a sidelong glance, as if daring me to admit to eavesdropping, I changed the subject. "Ash and I have been discussing strategies for the next score." I made it sound like I was accusing her of sloth.

In answer, she yawned widely and flounced over to a window.

"Instead of just killing Lady Vhetin – which means the Kellises will continue to fritter away their money on charity and theater – why don't we replace her permanently with someone who can funnel it towards _better causes_?" proposed Ash. "We'd have to find a way to account for any holes in her memory, though."

I liked the idea of a steady source of income, particularly after Ash's revelation that Irimina's finances were on the wobbly side. "We could fake a mugging and blow to the head when she's on her way home from the theater," I suggested. "That would explain the memory lapses."

From her corner by the window, Faith murmured, "What _is_ it with you and muggings, Isha?"

She had a point there. Maybe I'd lived in Crow's Foot for too long.

"There's an option that doesn't rely on makeup and hair dye." Ash visibly steeled himself before reminding us tentatively, "My family is from Tycheros…." Groping for the proper phrasing, he explained delicately, "As such, we can use methods that others can't…."

I shifted nervously in my chair, then mentally kicked myself for revealing my discomfort.

Meeting my eyes squarely, as he had during that first meeting, Ash asked bluntly, "Are you unwilling to use arcane methods to achieve your ends?"

I stayed silent.

"Wait a minute! Are you saying that you can impersonate people?" cried Faith, bounding over from the window and flinging herself into her chair. "_Perfectly_? Using demon magic?"

"Yes – "

"Ooooh, can I make my own double? Can you change the form of someone unwilling?" She fired such a barrage of questions at him that he didn't even have time to answer. "This opens up so many possibilities!" Pulling out a notebook from somewhere under her skirts, she flattened it open to a random page and began listing names frantically.

Meanwhile, I still hadn't uttered a word.

"What are the _long-term_ plans?" Faith asked eagerly. "I mean, Lady Vhetin's double is going to have to abandon their own life to take over hers, right? How will we ever find an actress willing to sacrifice endless auditions and poorly-paid waitressing jobs in order to live in a magnificent mansion with swarms of servants and twelve-course meals and tea parties and balls all the time?"

Not taking his eyes off me, Ash asked her, "How well do you like tragic endings?"

"I _love_ them!" enthused Faith. "They're the _best_! None of this comedy nonsense!"

"Well, my plan is to have my sister Tesslyn impersonate Lady Vhetin. Tess will channel all the Kellis money to our cult, and then, when we're done with her, I will _ruin_ her." The last he pronounced with a grimly satisfied smile.

Personally, I didn't care what he did to the rest of the Slanes or their cult (although I suspected that That Which Hungers would approve). What mattered to me was the demonic influence part. "Tell me more about the transformation process," I broke in. "What exactly will your sister need to do? Is this something in her blood from her, er, heritage? Or will she need to consort with demons?"

"Of course she won't!" cried Faith energetically. "Isha, this is one of _those_ questions – the ones you always answer 'No' to regardless of what the truth is."

"No," replied Ash flatly. "She's not going to summon any demons. This is something in our blood. She can just draw on it."

"So she won't need to perform _any_ demon summoning rituals?" Faith asked, looking crestfallen.

"No," he said definitively. "No demon summoning rituals."

I thought of the Demon Princes and the way they ruled U'Duasha through human servitors, of Ixis whispering lie after lie from his cracked crystal spire, of the endless cycles of blood vengeance that mangled my family. I remembered my theft of Grandfather, the assassins sent after me by my own kin, my flight across an isle and a half only to fetch up here, in a broken-down railcar with a part-demon partner.

But then I recalled Ash dragging me out of the haunted house to save me from specters; Ash surveilling Gaddoc Rail and the Silver Stag Casino with me, our abilities playing off each other in perfect harmony; Ash creating a distraction outside the brothel so Faith and I could escape first. Reluctantly, I decided to trust him.

"Okay. Fine. If you must."

* * *

I tailed him to his meeting with his sister anyway.

He'd chosen an abandoned office near the Old Rail Yard, which made it all too easy for me to creep after him and crouch under the warped window, listening as hard as I could. Tesslyn Slane arrived well after Ash did, keeping him waiting as part of an unmistakable familial power play.

"Hello, sister," Ash greeted her through gritted teeth. "How are you doing today?"

Peeking over the window ledge, I saw him sitting ramrod straight in an old chair while a hooded and cloaked figure hovered impatiently by the door.

"Get to the point," Tesslyn snapped. "I'm not interested in platitudes." Betraying faint relief that they could skip the small talk, Ash outlined our plan for killing and replacing Vhetin, and at the end, she said curtly, "I know the Kellis family. What I want to know is – what's in it for _you_?"

Offended that she even needed to ask, Ash retorted, "Well, _lots_ of money, for a start."

She snorted. "What makes you think I'd share it with you? What makes you think I need you and your little crewmates for this job? I can handle the replacement perfectly well myself."

Ash literally bared his teeth. "I'd be happy to watch you fail and then take over your position in the family." The siblings glared at each other in a brief stand-off before he removed a precisely-folded sheet of paper from his pocket and extended it like an olive branch. "Here. Your finances. Look," he said placatingly, "you're rich already, but you could be even richer. And you're a Slane. We're all greedy."

The hooded figure angled its head towards the figures on the paper, as if Tesslyn were calculating how much she could augment them with the Kellis family fortune. Sounding less hostile, she reiterated, "I still don't see why I need to cut you and your crew in."

This time Ash was ready. He replied promptly, "Because you need us to replace Lady Vhetin smoothly. We specialize in…discreet removals. You could, of course, try to do everything yourself, but what if you left loose ends? What if the Kellises investigated and discovered you're a fraud? Better to have more eyes and brains working on the problem." He wheedled, "Think of all that coin, going to waste on charity _tea parties_."

"Indeed," she mused. "Very well. What do you want?"

"Half of the Kellis fortune."

Nasty, demonic laughter filled the room to overflowing. "Try again, brother. You may have set up this opportunity, but _I_ am the one who will bear the risk going forward."

Somewhat defensively, Ash said, "Well, I had to start bargaining _somewhere_."

After an aggressive, rapid-fire haggling session, they settled on a division that would provide a steady stream of income to our crew, with Tesslyn retaining the greater portion for herself.

"Once we have a replacement plan, I'll contact you," Ash promised.

"I look forward to it." Tesslyn sounded like a judge of House Ankhuset pronouncing a death sentence.


	11. Lady Vhetin Kellis

"There. That." I stabbed a finger at a review for an upcoming play in the Theater & Arts section of the _Doskvol Times_ and read aloud, "'Set in Lockport in 845 IE, _A Requiem for Aldric_ takes a fresh look at the causes of the Unity War.'"

The three of us had braved a bone piercingly icy rain to buy copies of all three of Doskvol's official newspapers and scour them for upcoming plays and musicals. For once, the _North Hook Gazette_, purveyor of serious news for serious people; the _Doskvol Times_, provider of popular items for the everyman; and the _Dockside Telegraph_, repository for scandalous gossip and scurrilous rumors, were all agreed: The opening night of _A Requiem for Aldric_ would be _the_ event of the year.

Pulling her beribboned coat closer about her, Faith huddled further into the recesses of the doorway we'd commandeered. "You mean aristocrats want to hear about how pollution from all the leviathan blood processing destroyed Lockport and turned the residents into slithery, scaly monsters?"

Not the entire population, of course. Not the denizens of the protected enclave where the magnates lived – but for once Faith's flippant description was surprisingly accurate.

Ash's eyes widened as he read further. "Yes, apparently. Listen to this: 'Sisi Bell is brilliantly convincing in her role as the noble, doomed Queen Alayne, and Carter Vale's performance as her idealistic, devoted husband is not to be missed.' I'm surprised the Lord Governor is even allowing the performance."

Who cared _why_ he allowed it as long as it happened? "Sounds controversial," I said happily. "Vhetin definitely won't miss _that_." Skipping to the end of the article, I checked the performance dates. "It premieres at Spiregarden Theater in Brightstone on Carillon. That's only three days from now!"

Folding up the newspapers, we dashed back to our railcar so we could map out our strategy and divide up the tasks. Proving his devotion to the score – or his coffers – Ash immediately headed back out into the miserable rain to track down Vhetin's seamstress in Nightmarket. With the aid of a bribe, he succeeded in convincing her to make a knock-off of Lady Kellis's "one-of-a-kind" gown in time for the performance. "It's no worry," the seamstress assured him. "We do this all the time."

Cursing the weather, I changed into thin servant's attire, hoped I didn't catch my death of a cold, and spent all day tailing Vhetin as she made social calls. You'd think the rain would have deterred her, but no, she simply _couldn't_ put off returning Lady Strangford's visit any longer. After that, since she was right around the corner from Lady Strathmill, she simply _must_ drop in to offer her congratulations for a brilliant fundraiser. And then, of course, her favorite milliner would be _desolate_ if she didn't stop in to commission a new hat, and so forth. My coup came when I snuck into the Skovlan-themed costume ball she threw the next evening; warm and dry, I mingled with the guests, sampled the excellent buffet, and gleaned everything I could about Vhetin's personality.

Meanwhile, Faith read up on revolutionary theories, hung around Spiregarden Theater, and ingratiated herself with the actors until she identified a naïve young man with Skovlander sympathies. Over tea at a nearby café, she hinted that a group of aristocrats were secretly pro-Skovlander and encouraged him to alter a few words in the script to heighten the pathos. That would "reach out to the nobles," as she explained earnestly. "Being provocative can sometimes be a good thing, you know?" Between the two of them, they managed to rile up a good fraction of the actors, most of whom were already anti-establishment dreamers anyway.

Unfortunately, one of the stagehands turned out to be an undercover Bluecoat, and Faith found herself arrested and summarily hauled off to the station for questioning. Ash and I had to scrape together coin from both crew and personal coffers in order to appeal for her release.

"Our sister is completely harmless! I'm sure she didn't mean whatever she said!" I pleaded with the sergeant on duty. Since this was Brightstone, his hair was slicked back and his uniform buttons polished to a bright glint, meaning that he'd be expensive. Lowering my voice, I leaned forward across his desk and confided, "She's never been quite right in the head."

From my sleeve, I slid out one gold coin and laid it in front of him.

He looked down at it, then back up at Ash and me, who bore no family resemblance to Faith – or each other – whatsoever. "Nevertheless, we still need to know what she told the actors to do," he said sternly. "Intentionally or not, your _sister_ caused quite a disturbance at the theater."

As if by magic, Ash produced another gold coin from thin air and stacked it precisely on top of the first. "Whatever she said, I'm sure the actors have much more sense than to listen to _her_."

"_Actors_…." Still the sergeant hesitated.

Ash and I exchanged a resigned look and added a third coin.

At that, the Bluecoat swept them into his purse and stood abruptly. "Well, that answers all my questions for the moment." Striding over to one of the interrogation rooms, he unlocked the door and shooed a rather perky-looking Faith out. "Don't let me catch you hanging out here again," he ordered.

Faith batted her eyelashes at him. "But this is the most exciting place to be!" she protested sweetly.

"Ooookay!" I grabbed her arm and propelled her towards the door, while Ash politely thanked the sergeant for his time.

Out in the rain, Faith reclaimed her arm and reproached us, "You came too soon. I was just about to analyze Bluecoat interrogation techniques! I was planning to compare them to the Lampblacks'."

"If you want, we can take you right back," I snapped.

"No," said Ash firmly. "We already spent three coin getting her out the _first_ time. Who knows how much it will cost the _second_?"

* * *

Drawing on Faith's initial reconnaissance, we turned our attention to Spiregarden Theater itself during the play that preceded _A Requiem for Aldric_. Even though I'd passed the marble pile countless times, I hadn't yet penetrated its gilded front doors, so I was just as overwhelmed as an U'Du beggar when I stepped into the lobby. All around me soared pillars and staircases of ivory marble veined with gold, carved into complex geometric patterns and reliefs of theater scenes. Golden sconces shaped like flowers blossomed from the walls, and crystal chandeliers lit by thousands of electroplasmic bulbs scattered little rainbows everywhere. Flashing our standing-room-only tickets, we slipped past the ushers and joined the crowd pouring into the auditorium.

"Wow," I whispered, impressed despite myself.

The plush gold-and-blood-red carpet yielded noiselessly under each footstep. On the other side of a sea of seats upholstered in blood-red velvet loomed the stage and its blood-red curtain. From its sides curved ring after ring of gilded boxes and balconies, rising all the way up to the painted ceiling and the great golden chandelier that spiraled back down towards us.

Ash was already scanning the boxes, searching for the Kellises. "Which one is Lady Vhetin's?" he asked Faith quietly.

"That one," she replied, lifting her chin slightly. We followed her gaze up to a box on the second story, positioned directly across from the stage for the best possible view. Even as we watched, there was a flurry of fabrics and fans, and the lady herself appeared in a fancy ballgown and glittering jewels, chatting merrily with her friends.

A tinkling bell chimed, the lights dimmed, and the great chandelier rose majestically up into the ceiling. As the curtains swept open, we positioned ourselves where we could observe Vhetin without being too obvious about watching the nobles rather than the stage, although we needn't have worried. As far as I could tell, half the audience had attended purely to model their newest dresses and would have been sorely disappointed if the rest of us actually focused on the play.

Not Vhetin, though. As Irimina had said, Lady Kellis watched the actors with rapt attention, losing herself in the story and forgetting all about her companions.

At the intermission, we hurried into the lobby ahead of the other theater-goers and rushed up the marble staircase before Vhetin could leave her box. From her satchel, Faith produced a bottle of wine "from the director in appreciation of Kellis patronage." When she attempted to enter Vhetin's box, though, an old man in a sharp frock coat intercepted her and explained sternly that "only ushers are allowed to deliver things to patrons, miss. I'll take that, please."

We spent the second act back in the auditorium, scrutinizing the layout of the theater and determining how to orchestrate a riot.

* * *

On the night of the premier of _A Requiem for Aldric_, Spiregarden was packed to overflowing with not only theater regulars but also busybodies who couldn't bear to miss the controversy. Although we'd scraped together enough money to buy standing-room spots in the back balcony, we still showed up a few hours early to queue with a mob of Charterhall University students who were hoping for last-minute tickets. While we waited, Faith and I eavesdropped on the passionate political discussions around us.

"Haven't you read _A Treatise on the Rights of Man_? It would have been unnatural for the Skovlanders _not _to rebel – "

"Odrienne Keel just published her ideas on how to reform the Imperial system – "

"The Prime Minister would never agree to any reform – "

"There must be a cleaner way to process leviathan blood – "

"Of course there is, but it's too expensive so those greedy merchants will never go for it – "

Ash slithered through the crowd, casting out derogatory comments about _A Treatise on the Rights of Man_ and Odrienne Keel and Skovlanders alike. By the time the doors opened, he'd whipped the young activists to the cusp of a bloodbath.

"Try not to start the riot _before_ the Bluecoats get here," I whispered to him as the mob surged up the steps and into the lobby.

"I won't," he replied confidently. He headed off to incense a different group of students.

The beginning of the play was so good that I almost regretted what we were going to do to it. About halfway through the first act, the dialogue grew increasingly inflammatory. The Lord Governor of Skovlan displayed the most outrageous callousness when his subordinates reported that toxic showers were mutating citizens into half-leviathan, half-human abominations. "Let them live in the Void Sea with the rest of the demons," he shrugged, garnering hisses and boos from the student contingent in the auditorium. Then a detachment of Imperial soldiers disguised as factory workers murdered all Skovlanders charismatic enough to rally the laborers against their evil overlords, which drew angry shouts from the students.

In the boxes and balconies, first rustles and whispers, then open conversations broke out. A few rows ahead of us, some of the younger audience members commented loudly on the heroism of Skovlander resistance, while stolid middle-aged types turned around in their seats and shushed them furiously.

Triumphant music blared from the orchestra pit as Aldric, Skovlan's erstwhile puppet king and Imperial lapdog, proclaimed in a heartrending speech that if the Lord Governor and Immortal Emperor persisted in denying justice to Lockport, then Skovlan had no choice but to dissolve the political bonds that connected it to the Imperium. "We hold these truths to be self-evident…." Across the theater in one of the boxes, the playwright gaped at Aldric as if he couldn't quite decide whether to be fascinated or horrified.

"That's my cue." Skillfully, Ash wormed his way through the balcony, throwing out an insult here, a cutting remark there, and vanished out the door, only to reappear far below on the ground floor in the middle of a pack of students.

"This is madness! They cannot be allowed to say such things!" he yelled, gesturing wildly at the actors before the students shouted him down.

Onstage, the tragedy continued to unfold. Aldric died heroically in battle against Imperial forces and was succeeded by the beautiful princess who vowed to fulfill her father's oath.

"This is an outrage! This is treason! The author should be arrested and locked up this instant!" Ash howled. "Lock him up! Lock him up!" He gesticulated at the audience, as if hoping to start a chant. A few ragged voices actually responded from various corners of the theater.

At the end of the first act, Queen Alayne and her husband were cut down most treacherously by Imperial assassins. Right as they sank gracefully to the floor, clutching pathetically at their throats, all of the doors, even the emergency ones, on the first floor burst open. Bluecoats wielding truncheons exploded into the auditorium. "In the name of the Lord Governor – " one bellowed.

"Good," murmured Faith. "They were right on time. I _told_ them they couldn't miss the end of the first act."

"Imperial scum!" screamed one of the students and threw a program.

It just barely missed a Bluecoat. "You there! You're under arrest for assaulting an officer!"

"Tyrants!" yelled another voice. A beer bottle sailed through the air and smashed against the wall with a crash that echoed all over the theater.

A lady in one of the boxes shrieked.

As if that were the signal, the students roared and threw everything they could get their hands on, snatching opera glasses, bottles, programs, hats, and canes from their neighbors, who screamed and shouted and tripped over the seats as they tried desperately to escape. Meanwhile, the Bluecoats waded into the crowd with their truncheons, clubbing people right and left with no regard for whether they were attacking or attempting to flee.

"Come on," I ordered Faith and shoved my way towards the door. All around us, scuffles were beginning to break out. Here a young lady argued heatedly with her parents; there a merchant seized a young man by the front of his shirt and shook him ferociously. "It's a madhouse in here!"

Ahead of the other back balcony-ers, we pelted down the stairs. With each landing we passed, the throng of bodies grew denser.

"Sorry! Coming through! Coming through!" we cried, forcing our way through the gaps, knocking people into their neighbors, and ignoring their indignant shouts of "Hey!" and "Stop pushing!"

On the second floor landing, Faith called to me, "I'll get the carriage!"

She vanished down the stairs, and I fought free of the mob to burst into the Kellis box with my hair askew and skirts all crumpled. Vhetin and her husband were already on their feet, arguing vociferously with their friends over something.

"Vhetin, Vhetin, you must come at once!" I shrieked, pretending to catch myself on a chair and gasp for breath. "We have to get out now or we'll be trapped here!"

Even though she didn't recognize me, she could tell at a glance from my dress and demeanor that I moved in the same social circles. Grabbing her husband's arm and abandoning her friends, she ran towards me, and I whirled around and dove back into the hall.

"It's too late! We're already trapped!" she exclaimed, pushing futilely at a fat woman barring her path.

"This way!" Weaving and dodging through the crowd, I led the Kellises to the servants' stairwell.

Down we pelted to the lobby, where the press of bodies turned into a suffocating crush. Screams and shouts echoed off the carved marble walls, only to be answered by the sounds of punching and thuds from truncheons. Opera glasses and wine bottles sailed through the air to shatter against marble pillars, and shards of sharp glass showered down on the crowd. Vhetin let out a high-pitched shriek when someone stepped on her train. Fabric tore with a terrible _rip_.

"We're almost there!" I shouted, grabbing her arm to steady her and trying to pull her away from her husband.

Through a brief break in the mob, I caught a glimpse of Ash. He nodded quickly at me, then plowed straight into the matron behind Lord Kellis.

Caught off guard, she toppled forward, knocking the lord off his feet and into a student, who spun around furiously. Cocking his fist, he punched Kellis in the face with all his strength. The lord staggered backwards, collided with more people who turned with equal outrage, and quickly vanished under a seething mass of fists.

It all happened so fast that Vhetin didn't even notice.

"I see my carriage!" I yelled, yanking her along. "It's at the corner there!"

Sweaty and disheveled, trailing torn skirts and sleeves, we finally fought free of the mayhem and dashed for the carriage. Faith flung open the door as soon as she saw us, reached out a hand, and hauled Vhetin up. I threw myself in after her and slammed the door before anyone else could get in.

"Go!" Faith ordered the driver, who cracked his whip and sent the horses galloping away from the theater.

* * *

A few blocks later, we entered a darker, quieter neighborhood, and Vhetin finally collected herself enough to take a close look at Faith and me. All of a sudden, she realized that she didn't actually recognize either of us.

"Who _are_ you?" she demanded, peering at me.

"Oh my goodness! It was so highly reviewed!" I cried in an upper-class accent, pulling out a fan and flapping it in distress. "I mean, I knew it was going to be controversial, but I wasn't expecting a riot!"

Faith quickly jumped into the act, exclaiming in a creditable imitation of Irimina's accent, "Well, I never! Those horrid students! The theater should ban them from all future performances!"

The carriage jolted to a halt next to the alley where Tesslyn waited.

Unconvinced by our act, Vhetin pulled back the curtains and scanned the street, searching for landmarks she knew. "Where are we going – "

All of a sudden, she noticed just how deserted and shadowy the neighborhood was.

In a flash, she whipped out a gun and leveled it directly at me.

At the same time, I pointed my own pistol straight at her heart.

"Oh my goodness!" cried Faith, cringing back into the carriage cushions. "Are you going to kill me?"

Ignoring her, Vhetin demanded in a low, threatening voice, "Do you have any idea who I am and what my uncle will do to you?"

"I know that you're no lady," I replied, and pulled the trigger.

A split second later, a punch knocked all the breath out of me. I doubled over, and felt frantically at my chest. My fingers found torn silk, and then the bullet lodged in my armored corset, but no blood. Thank all the forgotten gods for armored corsets. Still gasping for air, I straightened back up and fumbled for my pistol.

Across the seat from me, Vhetin was bleeding badly from a wound to her chest, but she was frantically reloading her gun. Faith lunged for it and tried to wrestle it away, but Vhetin pulled the trigger again and shot her at point-blank range.

Faith jolted backwards and collapsed onto the cushions.

"Faith! Are you all right?" I seized Vhetin's wrist, and she twisted and fought, screeching for help.

"I'm fine!" Faith called. "Just a graze!"

Wrenching free of my grasp, Vhetin flung herself at the carriage door and threw it open – only to find herself face to face with Ash and his sword cane.

"I think you dropped something, milady," he said, and stabbed her through the throat.

She started to scream, then choked on her own blood and gurgled horribly, flailing wildly and clawing Ash badly before she finally crumpled unconscious to the carriage floor. Dark blood gushed from her neck to soak our shoes. Unceremoniously, we hauled her back up to check for a pulse.

In all the commotion, her dress had slid off her left shoulder just far enough to reveal a tattooed bee – the exact same tattooed bee on the shoulder of Pickett's docker.

Before any of us could say a word, Vhetin's voice interrupted from behind Ash. "Well, it's time to get back to my loving husband."

Ash moved to a side, and Vhetin leaned into the carriage to survey her bleeding self dispassionately.

"We need to do our thing," Ash reminded his sister.

In answer, she pushed him out of the way, flipped Vhetin onto her front, and tore open her dress and corset. Then, with one sharp fingernail, she inscribed a series of geometric sigils into Vhetin's back that glowed with brilliant blue light. Tendrils of smoke rose from them, carrying the light up and away from the skin, and collected into a slowly spinning ball over the dead woman. Tesslyn caught it neatly in a bottle, corked it securely, and tucked it into her pocket.

Ash had told me the truth. Whatever this ritual was, it wasn't demonic. It was certainly more than a little disturbing, though.

When Tesslyn had finished, Ash pointed at the bee tattoo. "You'll have to deal with that."

She registered it, then fixed him with a stern glare that looked odd on Vhetin's features. "Did you know about it?" she asked curtly.

"No," he admitted.

"I'll deal with it."

Ash exhaled, as if he hadn't been sure she'd agree so easily. "Well, working together was more fun than expected," he remarked.

She didn't even bother to respond to that. "I need the carriage."

Obediently, the three of us hauled Vhetin's corpse out and laid it on the ground, and without another word to us, Tesslyn directed the carriage back in the direction of the theater.

"Now I need to do _my_ thing," Faith said, and went about extracting Vhetin's spirit and bottling that up. Glancing around, she added, "Earlier, I reached into the ghost field. There weren't any ghosts – but I did find a spirit warden, who should be showing up any time now – oh, now!"

Right on cue, around the corner stalked a spirit warden, bronze mask scowling and lightning hook crackling with power.

There was no time to hide the body.

"What's going on here?" the spirit warden demanded in an eerie, hollow voice distorted by the mask.

I promptly threw myself over Vhetin's body and went into well-bred hysterics. Ash exclaimed that we were out for a stroll when ruffians attacked our friend. "How could such a thing happen in Brightstone?"

"She looks dead," observed the spirit warden, bending over for a closer look.

"Dead! She can't possibly be dead!" I screeched. "Wake up, oh, wake up…."

"There, there," said Faith soothingly to me. "Of course she's not dead. The bell hasn't rung, has it, sir?"

Indeed, it had not.

But just then a quick succession of bells pealed out from the direction of Spiregarden Theater, and the spirit warden spun on his heel and dashed away.

As soon as he was out of earshot, we dragged the body further into the shadows for the next gruesome bit. "If all goes as planned," Ash had argued, "it will look as if nothing happened at all. We need proof for Lady Irimina that we carried out the score."

So now he hacked off Vhetin's head and bundled it into a waterproof sack. Working swiftly, we stripped off the remnants of her "one-of-a-kind" dress and all her underclothes, and removed all identifying marks, including the tattoo, from her body. And then we hauled it to the nearest canal and dumped it in for the eels.


	12. The Day after a Riot

We didn't show up on Irimina's doorstep immediately, of course. Not only were we all exhausted, clawed (Ash), and drenched in blood (Faith and me), but there was the matter of presentation to consider. More specifically, Faith required time to preserve the head, line a Leech's tool case tidily with layers of brown butcher's paper, pack the head in _just so_, and then tie a shimmery black ribbon around the box to complete the look.

We went first thing in the morning.

The poor, unsuspecting Lady Kinclaith lounged on her usual settee, a pot of fresh tea steaming tranquilly in front of her. "Good morning," she drawled in that upper class accent Faith had appropriated last night. "I hope you have good news for me."

"_Indeed_!" chirped Faith, traipsing forward eagerly. "We brought you a present!"

Rather primly, Ash explained, "We did our best to minimize the attention we attracted so that we can continue our association in the future – "

Faith stole his punchline: "What my lovely associate is trying to tell you is that we found a doppelganger for Lady Vhetin. And we got you this!" She gleefully extended the beribboned box.

Looking slightly apprehensive – which proved that she knew Faith only too well – Irimina carefully untied the ribbon, undid the clasps, and raised the lid.

And found herself face to face with the murdered woman.

It would have been the height of _mauvais ton _to squeak, but a slightly shocked expression did flit across her features. (Irimina's, that was.) Obviously, whatever "business dealings" we were un-impeding didn't involve many severed body parts. Looking simultaneously fascinated and revolted, the lady poked curiously at the head and parroted mechanically, "Ah, yes, very good. I will have Rutherford bring your payment."

Satisfied with that response, Ash moved on to the next topic. "There's another concern," he told her matter-of-factly.

I wasn't even sure she heard him.

Faith happily squeezed onto the settee next to Irimina and began educating her on the subtleties of dismembered corpses. "If you poke there," she instructed, "you can watch the residual blood drain out." "See that gradient of pallor, running from greenish-white to grey? If you put your thumb right there, you can watch the pressure propagate across the flesh…."

I looked on in a horrified trance of my own. Despite – or perhaps because of – the grisliness that characterized my family relationships, Mother and Father had never let my brother and me near any dead bodies.

"We can dispose of that for you," Ash tried again. "It's within the bounds of the contract, obviously."

Breaking out of the macabre examination, Irimina replied with admirable bravado, "Yes, that might be for the best." She stared at the head some more. "Although I do appreciate you bringing it to me."

Satisfied, Faith lifted the box out of her lap, gave the head's matted curls a fond pat, closed the lid, retied the bow, and set the box on the floral carpet. Irimina's appalled gaze followed every single motion.

Still trying to reclaim our employer's attention, Ash said loudly, "Lady Vhetin had a tattoo – "

"How gauche," remarked Irimina absently, tearing her eyes away from the box at last.

"– of a bee," Ash finished.

Irimina went nearly as white as the blood-drained head. "The _Hive_," she breathed. "Oh no. Oh gods…."

"From your reaction, I assume you didn't know about this."

"No, no, I didn't. I'm sorry. The Hive. Oh gods…."

"Yes, well, the doppelganger didn't know about it either, which is not ideal, but rest assured, she is very competent. For now, the Hive will not be a problem."

Her hands trembling, Irimina picked up her dainty porcelain cup. It rattled on its saucer. Taking a sip of tea, she composed herself by sheer force of will and said in her very best nonchalant voice, "Well. You've given me a lot to think about. Rutherford will have your payment. I'll send a message once I have a better idea of what to do about…this."

"Yes, milady," agreed Ash, who was probably already calculating how to convert complication into profit.

"Your attention to detail is a joy," pronounced Irimina, effectively dismissing us.

We left her to her now-cold tea and collected our payment from the butler.

* * *

Back in Coalridge, Faith dissolved the head with her chemicals, stinking up the railcar and its environs for days. Luckily, the Old Rail Yard smelled pretty foul anyway, so no one noticed or cared, least of all the scruffy, three-legged mutt that had taken to hanging around at mealtimes.

Evidence of our latest escapade safely disposed of, Faith drooped about our common room, declaiming theatrically about how her shoulder still ached _weeks _after the score and how in addition to that, her fair flesh had been marred by a hideous bullet wound. Naturally, both of these injuries were worthy of much complaint, except – as she earnestly assured me – she wouldn't _dream_ of subjecting to that anyone who had introduced her to _such_ a good doctor last time.

I took her hint.

With a sigh and a roll of my eyes, I bargained, "I'll take you to see Sawbones if you don't get us shot or stabbed."

"That would be counter-productive!" she protested. "The whole point is to get un-shot!"

Good enough?

Somewhat to my disappointment, there was no sign of Bazso in the Leaky Bucket, but the usual mix of Lampblacks and Crows ribbed one another in the booths, and Mardin greeted me from behind the bar as soon as we entered. "Good evening, Glass!" His smile slipped very slightly when he caught sight of Faith and her ruffles.

"Evening, Mardin," I called back. "Is Sawbones around?"

"Yep."

He pointed to a booth near the back, where the good doctor was nursing a mug of ale. I immediately started in that direction, but Faith pulled me over to the bar to buy a shot of whiskey before we approached him.

Like Mardin, Sawbones recognized her instantly.

"Good evening, miss," he said neutrally, shoving his mug aside and gesturing for us to sit down across from him.

"I just couldn't resist your charms," Faith explained sweetly, sliding along the seat and filling the bench with her many-tiered skirts. I pushed some of the fabric out of the way so I could fit. "I had to get injured again just so I could come visit!"

A grudging smile escaped Sawbones, but he shook his head. "I don't believe it. Shoulder still bothering you?"

Faith handed him the shot glass of Skovlander whiskey. "These wounds just appear, you know!" She waved her hands helplessly. "You look away for one instant and they just show up out of nowhere!"

Shaking his head again, Sawbones downed the whiskey and led us to the infirmary (which was actually Mardin's storeroom). While Faith hopped onto a large wooden table, I ambled around the room, examining kegs of beer and burlap bags full of mushrooms, and guessing at the Leaky Bucket's supply chain. In the background, the good doctor was directing Faith to move her shoulder so he could test its range of motion. That done, he taught her a set of daily strengthening exercises.

"Now, where's that new injury of yours?" he asked.

"Right here!" With the other arm, Faith pointed at her side. "Oh, wait, you can't actually see it. Isha, do you mind _disrobing_ me?"

Thank goodness Bazso wasn't around.

With the very tips of my fingers, I unbuttoned the back of Faith's dress and helped her peel off the bodice so Sawbones could examine the bullet wound.

At the sight, his eyebrows shot up. "This isn't what I expected," he remarked.

Faith heaved a dramatic sigh. "You're at a wonderful show, learning _all_ about Skovlander viewpoints, and all of a sudden there's a piece missing from your side!"

Halfway through threading a needle, Sawbones froze. "You were at the riot?" he demanded.

"You mean the _party_?" Faith corrected him.

"You got tickets for _A Requiem for Aldric_?" he asked incredulously. "But why – ? How – ?" Catching himself, perhaps recalling what happened to doctors who asked too many questions, Sawbones finished simply, "I'm jealous, miss."

"Yes, it was _such_ a wonderful party! What a shame it was cut short! Next time, I simply _must_ attend the afterparty!"

Shaking his head, Sawbones stitched up her side and bandaged it thoroughly. "No sharp movements – or _parties _ – for the next week," he ordered. "Not unless you want to rip it open again."

Faith leaned over and gaily kissed him on the cheek. "You're just as kind and gracious as I remembered!" Wriggling off the table, she pressed a handful of slugs into his hand and flounced over to the door. "The next time I have tickets, I'll take you," she promised.

The front page of this morning's _Doskvol Times_ had screamed with reports that the hapless playwright, Ian Templeton, was sitting in Iron Hook Prison on charges of sedition. Speculation was rife in the _Dockside Telegraph_ that the Lord Governor would censor and publicly burn all of his works.

Rather drily, Sawbones remarked, "I really doubt that, miss."

* * *

Faith's next order of business, as my archivist reported that evening, was to visit the Sensorium. "She told Madame Keitel that she had memories from a 'tragically recently deceased member of the Hive,'" he whispered, darting petrified glances around the bustling stalls of the night market.

Ripping a candied mushroom off a skewer with my teeth, I gestured impatiently for him to continue.

"She said that the memories weren't ready for public consumption just yet – " (or ever, I should think!) – "but she wanted to see what the, um, member was up to. And Madame Keitel said, 'This is the hottest thing I've held for a while.' Then she told Mistress Karstas to wait, that she could process it right away." The mousy little man gulped. "And – and – while she was doing that, she _questioned_ us. Mistress Karstas, I mean. She wanted to know what happened, a while back, when someone beat up Madame Keitel."

Ah, that must be the personal project for which Faith had "borrowed" crew coin.

"And what did you tell her?" I inquired, flicking the last mushroom to a scruffy, three-legged mutt that had materialized by the next stall and was staring at me pleadingly.

"I told her the truth!" he exclaimed, terrified and indignant at the same time. "I told her what all the rest of the staff told her – the Bluecoats took Madame Keitel in for questioning about that Dagger Islander Whisper!"

The mutt gulped down the candied mushroom and stared at me some more. I frowned at it, trying to determine whether it was the same one that hung around the railcar. Don't tell me it followed me all the way to Nightmarket on the off-chance that I'd feed it! "And how did Mistress Karstas react?"

The archivist's entire body drooped. "She didn't believe me. She said no self-respecting Bluecoat would care about some dead Dagger Islander, so there has to be more. But I really, really don't know anything else!"

The poor fellow had gotten into such a panic that it took some time for me to work the conversation around to the important part: "What memories did Madame Keitel extract?"

"Lots of great theater."

That couldn't be it. "What else?" I snapped. "Stop wasting my time and yours."

The archivist swallowed hard, sidled closer, and breathed into my ear, "The member is related to Commander Orris, second-in-command of the Hive. She was a sort of…mascot or pet for them." He shuddered. "They were very protective of her. Oh gods, they're going to kill me too!"

Well, not if Faith discovered that he was reporting to me and got to him first.

"It will be all right," I said soothingly. "You did well."

I passed him a pouch full of slugs, bought three skewers of candied mushrooms for his kids, and left him in the middle of the market.

By then, the mutt had vanished.


	13. Plans

"That's the second or third time I've seen that dog," Ash remarked.

The scruffy three-legged mutt – the same one from the night market; this time I was sure of it – was slumbering peacefully outside our railcar, stretched out luxuriously along the train tracks. When we clattered down the steps, it lifted its head and stared at us alertly, ready to bound over at the first whiff of food.

What was the point of disguises if people could identify me by the distinctive dog that followed me around? I shook my head at it fiercely. "Go away! Scram!"

Having ascertained that we carried no breakfast, the mutt closed its eyes again and started to snore. Undignified, but it would do.

To Ash, I sniffed, "The dogs here are so ugly. Back home, we always kept desert salukis."

Too late, I realized what I'd let slip. Well, maybe it could be interpreted as a general sort of "we," as in "we, my fellow countrymen," versus "we, my family."

Luckily, Ash came from Tycheros, not Iruvia. "I've never seen a desert saluki. What do they look like?" he asked curiously.

"The Iruvian desert saluki is a hunting dog descended from the sighthounds bred by nomadic tribes," I recited, trying to drown him in natural history. "It has a long, narrow head, slender body, and very long legs. Its short, silky fur ranges from cream to golden-brown – the colors of the sand pre-Cataclysm – which presumably provided camouflage on hunts, although of course there's no way to test the hypothesis." I glared at the mutt's matted greyish-brownish hog-like bristles.

"That sounds nice." To my relief, Ash spoke absently, his attention already shifting to the task at hand.

The two of us were on our way to the Bank of Doskvol, which owned and sold debt collection rights, to investigate Helene's hapless patrons (and potential enemies). Faith had declined to join us, sending us off with an airy, "I wish you the best!" which I'd taken to mean that she found account books significantly less appealing than Whisper-y nonsense, especially when she wasn't getting paid.

"Gambling is heavily regulated in Doskvol, of course," Ash lectured as we strode towards Charterhall. "Obviously, the government needs to take its cut. But that presents an opportunity for us, because the Bank of Doskvol ultimately owns all gambling debts and sells them along with other types of debt as CDO's, or collateralized debt obligations. By law, the bank is required to provide detailed information to investors."

"So what are we looking for?" I asked. "We're not actually buying anyone's debt, are we?"

"No, no. Well, maybe. It depends. Maybe if we find something interesting. How much do you know about Helene? She's a very capable woman, and her casino is profitable – or can be made so. Gambling is all about risk management."

But Helene's competence didn't explain why we were investigating her debtors, and I said as much.

Ash exclaimed, "It's embarrassing for a successful guild of our profession to operate out of a _railcar_! We will ruin Helene, take over the Silver Stag, and install one of her enemies to act as our public face."

Not to mention generate a steady source of revenue for the crew, against the day Irimina's funds ran out. "I'm entirely okay with owning a casino where the odds are always in our favor."

"Not _always_ in our favor," Ash corrected swiftly. "If the house always wins, no one will come."

And that was why we left supervision of business ventures to him.

* * *

The Bank of Doskvol turned out to be an imposing edifice with stone lions that guarded the steps leading up to a marble portico. In our respectable business suits, we passed right by the doorman and security guards and quickly talked our way into a private back room, where an obsequious clerk brought us the account books of all Silver Stag debtors. Over the course of the morning, we learned that Helene did not lack for victims who owed vast sums. With uncharacteristic emotion, Ash cycled between righteous rage at people who gambled when they were so obviously terrible at "risk management," elation at the thought of cheating someone out of twenty coin, and depression that Helene got it instead of him.

"I haven't seen anyone connected to the City Council. Have you?" he asked me.

"No." In fact, most of the accounts belonged to the second tier of Doskvolian aristocracy. The names of the Bowmores, Clellands, Strangfords, and Dunvilles were conspicuously absent. With my finger, I traced the spines of a stack of books, each tidily inked with the debtor's full name. "Look – it's mostly the younger children of noble families." Since the eldest children inherited the family estates and businesses, the spoiled younger darlings were left to while away their time at the gambling tables. I pulled out and opened the one labeled "Roethe Kinclaith." "Hmmm, Irimina's brother doesn't actually owe that much," I remarked, revising my assessment of Kinclaith finances.

"But one Brannon Keel does. Just look at that!" Ash heaved a book in front of me.

"Ye gods!" I gasped, running my finger down the dates and columns of numbers bloated by compound interest. "That's one of Irimina's friends! Brannon is – " I searched my memories – "he is the third son of Lord Keel."

Scanning the figures with a practiced eye, Ash pronounced, "This looks off. I think he's being cheated out of his money. Helene must have tricked him somehow…." His voice trailed off as he scoured Brannon's accounts. Then he shut the book with a decisive snap. "All right, I have everything we need. I'm going to talk to my mother now. Do you mind if I leave you here?"

Not at all. "I'm due at the sword academy anyway," I told him, somewhat disingenuously. My class wasn't until later in the afternoon, but Ash didn't know that.

Unfortunately, although I tailed him to his mother's Nightmarket townhouse, I couldn't think of a way to infiltrate it and could only watch through a window as he vanished into the basement. Ah, well. Time to go terrorize my students.

* * *

After a thoroughly infuriating lesson in which I tried to teach them new parry-riposte skills, only to discover that they'd forgotten everything I drilled into them last week, I dismissed my class in disgust and ran upstairs to talk to Mylera. The head of the Red Sashes operated out of the mansion's main study, which had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along one wall, recessed electroplasmic lights in the ceiling, and red silk hangings everywhere, of course. The office door was shut, indicating that she was busy, but I rapped anyway.

"Mylera?" I called through the wood.

"Oh, Glass! Come in!" her voice called back. Little clinking noises drifted through the door, and by the time I stepped into the office, Mylera was already grinding coffee beans (reasonably high quality, imported from Iruvia). "Please, have a seat." Her hands full with the coffee mill, she jerked her head at one of the upholstered chairs in front of her desk.

With her bronze skin, deep brown eyes, and glossy black hair, Mylera Klev looked much more Iruvian than I. She'd inherited the proud, arched nose of House Ankhayat, of which she'd been a member before a Mysterious Family Dispute. In the aftermath, she'd either disowned herself or been disowned but permitted to claim that she disowned herself to save face, and stormed off to Doskvol for a life of crime. Despite my best efforts, I'd never managed to extract the details of her exile, although the more romantically inclined whispered that she'd been _involved_ with an unsuitable man, while the conspiracy theorists alleged that she'd personally caused the collision and sinking of two leviathan hunters from Houses Ankhayat and Ankhuset. (Whatever the truth of that matter, Houses Anixis and Anserekh rapidly brokered a truce and strenuously suppressed all details of the incident. An inter-House war would tear the Iruvian fleet apart and force us to import leviathan blood from the rest of the Imperium, serving only Akorosi designs. However, into this vacuum of hard facts, bored gossips spouted all kinds of rumors.) Regardless of how or why she'd come to Doskvol, Mylera knew all about family issues and banishment, self-imposed or otherwise, and generally treated me with empathy.

Also, she _thought_ she knew my true identity.

"So," she asked conversationally, "how are things with the family?" Handing me an artistically chunky earthenware mug imported from Iruvia, she sank into her own chair with a second mug.

Taking an appreciative sip of the coffee – which was really quite good – I glanced around her office, taking stock of her art collection, which included a delicate porcelain statue of She Who Slays in Darkness that occupied pride of place on her desk, and noting that nothing had changed since last week.

In answer to her question, I shrugged expressively. Mylera knew perfectly well that I had no contact with my family and every intention of keeping it that way.

"And how are the beginners coming along?" she inquired.

I briefly summarized their progress (or lack thereof), detailing the exercises I'd covered in the past two weeks.

Obviously, Mylera shared my opinion of their learning speed. She frowned at my report. "I'd hoped they would be further along by now."

"Well, they try, but you know…."

She sighed and completed my thought: "But nobles are naturally lazy." She gave me a wink, hinting at what she thought was our little secret. "We need to find a way to motivate them."

The oil painting of a great Iruvian naval battle that loomed behind her desk gave me an idea. "We could organize a schoolwide fight," I suggested. "With live blades to up the stakes."

"Hmmm…." She mulled it over for a moment, perhaps contemplating how to placate the irate parents of stabbed students. "That would certainly provide motivation. I'll organize something." Educational concerns out of the way, the head of the Red Sashes leaned back in her chair, propped her feet on her desk, and asked meaningfully, "So, what do you have for me this time, Glass?"

Ironically, in order to maintain my credibility as a double agent, both she and Bazso prepared partially accurate intelligence for me to convey to the other every week. Now I fed her Bazso's innocuous report – and then took a gamble. After all, as Ash would say, it was all about risk management, wasn't it?

Quietly, I told her, "The Lampblacks caught a docker sabotaging their activities. A docker with a bee tattoo." Mylera went still, much as Bazso had when Pickett slammed the man onto the table and yanked down his collar. "He confessed that the Hive plans to either drive the Lampblacks and Red Sashes out of the Docks – or make both of you pay tribute."

"_Us_," she corrected me absently, tapping her fingers on her desk as she processed the information. "They want to make _us_ pay tribute. Well. That does explain why I've seen an increasing number of crates marked with bees at the Docks."

"You have?" I probed cautiously. "Do you know what's in them?"

"Probably drugs. The Hive makes profit any way it can. I wonder if Lyssa knows about this," she mused, naming the newly-minted leader of the Crows.

"I don't know. I can find out," I offered.

Mylera immediately shook her head. "Never mind, it's not important. The Crows aren't what they used to be." Grimly, she declared, "It's time for us to shore up our defenses."

Here was my chance. I sat up straight.

"You're going to hate this, but hear me out," I said intensely. Mylera regarded me impassively, which I interpreted as encouragement or at least permission to continue. "Do you remember that time, just after Iruvia joined the Imperium, when Akorosian senators insisted that we give up our standing army as a sign of good faith? In order to defend our interests, Houses Ankhayat and Ankhuset set aside their differences and outmaneuvered the Akorosi_ together_."

"I don't like where you're going with this, Glass," she warned.

I persisted anyway. "Independently, the Red Sashes and Lampblacks are no match for the Hive. But _together_, you can stave it off…."

Mylera stared sternly at me until I stopped talking. "Even if _I _were willing," she pointed out in a clipped tone, "Bazso would never go for it."

"I'll work on him," I promised confidently.

She smirked, hinting at what she thought was my background. "I'll think about it," she said at last.

"But it makes sense – "

"I'll take it under advisement," she told me flatly and, sipping her coffee, lapsed into silence.

* * *

But the day wasn't over yet. As I lay in my railcar bunk bed late that night, drifting halfway between waking and dreaming, a voice addressed me. _Granddaughter, a word?_

_Mmmm?_ I asked drowsily.

_I can't help but feel that you're getting sidetracked by these Akorosi concerns. I'm disappointed in you. There are larger things afoot. Have you been paying _any_ attention to relations between Iruvia and Akoros? Or have you been too focused on Crow's Foot?_

My dream-self blushed.

_A job will come your way. You should take it._

_ I'll decide for myself_, I told the voice.

_It is not in either of our interests to let happen what will certainly come to pass should you neglect your duty._

_I'll judge that for myself,_ I informed it defiantly, and then, quoting Mylera: _I'll take it under advisement._

For a moment, wisps of smoke circled my head in frustration, as if searching for something. But then they evaporated into nothingness and I fell fast asleep.

* * *

The next morning, I woke with a hazy memory of a conversation about current events and the conviction that I needed to learn more about Iruvian-Akorosi relations. In the archives in Charterhall, I scoured old newspapers for any relevant articles. Last week, the frontpages were all screaming about Merrick Dillingham's death. Naturally, the _North Hook Gazette_ focused on the impact on business at Gaddoc Rail and mentioned an Iruvian connection only as a footnote. The _Dockside Telegraph_, on the other hand, ran hysterical headline after hysterical headline about how demons from Iruvia had invaded Akoros and were murdering citizens in the very streets of Doskvol! Reading between the lines of more recent _Gazette _articles, I found hints of general dissatisfaction among Akorosi merchants over how Iruvia acted like a sovereign nation still and denied them free access to U'Duashan markets. Taken together, all the newspapers conveyed a sense of deep unease in Doskvol.

After considering matters, I began to approach and recruit Iruvian Consulate employees, particularly the cleaning staff whom no one ever noticed but who saw and heard everything. Pleased at being treated like human beings for once, they told me that Elstera Avrathi had been working particularly long hours of late. In addition, the volume of her letters had increased drastically, suggesting that she'd gone into crisis mode after the Gualim affair.

My new agents also promised to keep an eye out for _him_ and alert me if they saw anyone so distinctive, but given his penchant for disguises, I wasn't overly optimistic.

A new job offer soon interrupted my fretting anyway. In much the same way that the Lampblacks handled my personal correspondence, the Lost accepted and delivered the crew's mail. One of their younger scoundrels showed up at the railcar with a cheery, "Letter for you!" She handed it to us, waved at the mutt, which eyed her curiously, and ran off.

Opening the aggressively nondescript envelope, we found a stilted note penned in aggressively nondescript handwriting. For the benefit of Faith, who declined to stand up and walk across the room, Ash read out loud: "Two individuals would like to discuss a matter of some sensitivity…."

I rolled my eyes. These "two individuals" sounded like amateurs plagiarizing a penny dreadful. "Well, they've obviously never hired assass – " Ash cleared his throat – "I mean, _guildmembers_ _of our profession_ before."

"They do seem desperate," he observed. "They've suggested rendezvousing in a café in Silkshore. What do you want to do about this?"

A vague memory stirred, of bedtime whispers and wispy smoke – and something about a job and duty and Iruvian interests and my intention to judge for myself. I feigned casualness. "Can't hurt to find out more, right?"

* * *

The three of us showed up to the appointed café at the appointed time, but before we went inside, I surveyed it thoroughly to forestall any ambush attempts. Located on a shadowy side street on the edge of Silkshore, Prufrock Coffee & Tea provided a discreet place for illicit trysts. Through a grimy side window, I noted the overall darkness of the interior and the high booth backs that hid the patrons' faces.

"It looks clean," I reported to Faith and Ash.

All things considered, Prufrock wasn't a bad meeting place for a couple of amateurs and the scoundrels they hoped to engage. Accustomed to assignations, the wait staff swiftly and discreetly ascertained the purpose of our visit and ushered us to a booth at the very back of the room.

At our approach, two young Iruvian gentlemen rose politely to their feet.

To my shock, I recognized one of them.

He was Vaati Zayana, my student at the Red Sash Sword Academy.


	14. Grandfather's Job

"Oh good, you came!" blurted out the younger Iruvian – who was barely more than a boy, really. He looked all of sixteen. "Vaati wasn't sure you would!"

One of the less powerful and less wealthy side branches of House Ankhayat, the Zayanas nevertheless controlled a fair amount of resources in Doskvol thanks to their leviathan hunter fleet connections. Vaati's parents parlayed their ties to ship captains into a tidy business – in short, they sold access. More relevantly for me, as far as I could tell the family bore no particular love for House Anixis and hence shouldn't be _his_ allies.

Feigning astonishment at seeing my student in a shady café in the red lamp district, I exclaimed, "Why, what a pleasant surprise!" To Ash and Faith, I explained, "This is one of my most promising students!"

Perhaps recalling her own days under my tutelage, Faith scanned Vaati up and down, noting his musculature and studying the sword at his side.

Turning back to the Zayanas, I smiled at the younger boy and inquired with apparent cluelessness, "What brings you in here? And who is this young gentleman?"

Looking even more nervous, Vaati stammered out, "This is my little brother, Jin." _Please don't hurt him_, begged his eyes.

Gawking curiously at each of us (especially Faith), Jin offered a jerky little bow.

With increasing anxiety, Vaati asked, "We thought – we thought you came here because you got our, um, letter? We sent a letter about how we needed your help…? Did you not receive it?"

"Oh, _that_ letter!" I pretended to remember all of a sudden. "Yes, of course, we received it. Please, why don't we all have a seat and order drinks? Then you can explain why you think my associates and I can be of assistance to you."

The two boys practically tripped over themselves in their rush to sit, abruptly recalled that in Doskvol, ladies sat first, leaped up again, and hovered awkwardly until Faith and I and, for good measure, Ash had all slid into one side of the booth. Finally, they sank onto the opposite bench, looking even more ill at ease than before.

A waitress materialized discreetly, took our orders, and vanished again. She returned almost immediately with five mugs of foul coffee. But that was all right – beverages weren't the main attraction of this café.

As the elder brother, Vaati took the lead in recounting the convoluted tale of how he'd seen Grandfather in class that time and recognized it as a fine Iruvian heirloom. (I might have kicked myself for that mistake – if Faith hadn't done it for me.) Curious about the sword, he'd recruited Jin to help poke around until they eventually connected it to a crew of nameless assassins. Given the number of logical holes in their story, I guessed that Grandfather had guided the brothers for its own opaque purposes.

_Is this the job?_ I asked experimentally, not really expecting an answer.

Grandfather didn't disappoint.

"We really, really, _really_ need your help," declared Jin, so loudly that Vaati jumped a little, shushed him fiercely, and cast nervous glances around the café.

Leaning across the table in all her ruffled glory, Faith purred, "You must be careful what you say in here. A cute morsel like you could get gobbled up by the criminal element."

Barely daring to breathe, Jin stared, stricken, into her eyes.

Faith lounged back, flashed him a bright smile, and added, "But_ I_ won't eat you. Yet."

Poor Vaati looked more and more convinced that he'd made a very bad judgment call when he chose to investigate the sword. _I_ could have told him that.

Ash spoke up at last. "Can you be more specific about whom you need audited?" Drawing out his notebook, he laid it on the table next to his abandoned coffee, flipped to a blank page, and poised a pen over it.

Jin nodded trustingly at Vaati, who took a deep breath and began hesitantly, "We're concerned that things are deteriorating between Akoros and Iruvia." He stopped and glanced again at Jin, who smiled back confidently, blissfully ignorant of just how precarious their position was. Vaati recited an explanation he'd clearly rehearsed: "If things should fully deteriorate between the two isles, there's a person we'd rather not be around, if you know what I mean." He took another deep breath. "It's…a professor at Doskvol Academy. We were…we were wondering about your going rate?"

"First tell me _who _it is," I ordered.

Vaati gulped again, then mumbled, "General Ronia Helker."

I blanched.

I knew the name.

How could I not? Ronia Helker won eternal fame – or infamy, depending on your opinion of military massacres – during the Unity War when she orchestrated the final offensive on Lockport. To ensure that the Skovlanders were well and thoroughly pacified, once she'd shelled the city into surrender, she unleashed her forces in an orgy of murder, rape, and looting. Crazed with bloodlust after a long and brutal civil war, Imperial forces leveled all of the city but the leviathan blood processing plants and the mansions of magnates who'd sided with the Imperium. Then they divided rebel fighters and civilians into lots of a hundred, herded them outside the lightning barrier, ordered them to dig large trenches, and systematically executed all of them, down to the last baby. The handful of survivors hidden by the magnates – and the magnates themselves – later whispered that Imperial officers competed to see who could behead more Skovlanders in given timespan. The Lampblacks, especially the ones who'd fled Lockport during the Unity War, hated Helker with murderous bitterness.

Softly, Vaati said, "We're worried that she'll do the same thing to Iruvia, if things continue the way they have."

Had relations between the Imperium and my homeland deteriorated to such a degree? If so, Grandfather had definitely been right to chastise me for tunnel vision.

Lacking a personal connection to Skovlan or Iruvia, Ash remarked practically, "Her books must be pretty disordered," and glanced at me for a cue.

I was too rattled to do anything but nod jerkily.

He flashed me a hand signal, asking silently, _Should we scalp them or go easy, since they seem to be friends of yours?_

If the boys were serious about this score, they could draw on not only Zayana coffers but also the Ankhayat treasury. _Go high_, I signed.

"Well," observed Ash seriously, scribbling busily in his notebook. "Audits aren't a flat rate." Glancing at Faith and me, he hand-signed, _Nine coin?_

_Yes_, I signed back.

"Yes," said Faith out loud, with a sweet smile for the boys.

Tearing the page out of his notebook, Ash presented it to Vaati. "This is an itemized breakdown of all the costs that we will incur during the audit," he explained, walking them through the numbers. "As you can see, it comes out to twelve coin – " Jin literally squeaked, and Vaati's eyes went wide – "but we're marking it down to nine because we like you."

Neither boy uttered a single word.

Doubtfully, I signed to Ash, _Are you sure this will work?_

"Of course," Ash told them smoothly, "we can negotiate a further discount, given your connection to my associate – and your future goodwill."

The boys continued to gape at the "twelve coin" part of the invoice.

Leaning forward again, Faith reminded them almost maternally, "You were the ones who chose to go down this rabbit hole. Do you or _don't_ you know what you're getting into?"

At last, Vaati swallowed hard and said dazedly, "This needs to happen…. We can definitely pay seven. We can maybe do…?" He trailed off when Jin poked his arm and whispered something in his ear. Nodding slowly, Vaati spoke with bravado, "We could do eight, but in such an event, it would be good to have any notes she's made on the Iruvia situation."

"That is acceptable," I agreed promptly, already planning to keep the originals and deliver copies to the Zayanas.

Amending the invoice, Ash said briskly, "Yes, we can make it eight coin contingent on recovery of the notes."

The boys bobbed their heads eagerly, then glanced at each other uncertainly, obviously wondering what the proper protocol was for concluding such meetings.

Ash took mercy on them and helped them out. "May I suggest a retainer of three coin?" At their nervous expressions, he lowered it to two, which they managed to produce after pooling their purses. "You may pay us the remainder later."

Faith assured them cheerily, "Don't worry about looking for us. We'll find you after the score!"

Looking very much as if locating us to pay us had _not_ previouslybeen a concern but now most definitely was, the boys hastily slid out of the booth. I stopped Vaati before he could flee.

"Practice your low-line parrying," I advised sternly. "I'll see you in class next week."

Vaati, who was actually one of my more diligent students, nodded vigorously before the two of them scampered off.

"You have nice students," Ash remarked, watching them bound around the corner. "I felt bad scalping them."

Faith looked very disappointed by this expression of human sentiment.

* * *

So – how did one ambush or otherwise assault an Imperial general, especially an Imperial _field_ general famed for her formidable hand-to-hand combat skills?

"We should survey Doskvol Academy," I said to the others.

A newspaper archive search had revealed that not two months after the Battle of Lockport, Helker retired from active duty "to spend more time with her family" and accepted a cushy teaching post at the College of Naval Command. (The _Dockside Telegraph _screamed that she'd been sidelined in order to placate the now-pacified and totally-no-longer-seditious Skovlanders.) Now, if only Helker had chosen Charterhall University, we might have struck her on her way to or from work or even on the campus itself, but unfortunately Doskvol Academy squatted right next to the Lord Governor's stronghold in Whitecrown. Even more unfortunately, the broad and brightly-lit Bowmore Bridge led straight from Brightstone to Whitecrown, making Helker's daily commute the safest in the city.

Ash snorted derisively. "_Doskvol Academy_. That upstart school of secondhand knowledge where all they do is plagiarize Tycherosi research."

Faith beamed at him. "Aww, Ash, you really do know how to honor institutions of higher learning. I'm so glad that someone else appreciates the _cataclysmic_ significance of properly citing prior research!"

Unless a disgruntled Tycherosi professor hired us to off his or her academic rivals, I really couldn't care less who published before whom and in what journal. "Maybe we can frame Helker for plotting to seize the Lord Governorship with backing from House Anixis," I suggested. "Then we let the Akorosi government purge her itself – or, if necessary, we stage an assassination by a fanatic."

"That would take much too long," Ash objected. "We don't have that kind of time."

"The Zayanas didn't give us a deadline," I pointed out.

"Such cute, innocent, little bunny rabbits!" put in Faith, hopping onto the bar and swinging her legs. "You wouldn't want to leave them hanging, would you? Or falling down the rabbit hole forever and ever and ever?"

As was habit by now, Ash didn't acknowledge her directly, but he addressed me forcefully, "Right now we have a reputation for quick, clean scores. If we take too long, the Zayanas and Ankhayats will believe that we are incompetent."

Fair enough. Grudgingly, I set aside my grand plan for poetic justice. Rather unnecessarily, I informed the others, "We need to surveil Helker and learn everything we can about her routine and vices, then."

* * *

As before, Ash disguised himself as a student and tailed a rowdy band of Academy partygoers headed for Silkshore. Inconveniently for him, instead of taking a cart across Bowmore Bridge and through Brightstone, the Docks, and Crow's Foot, where he could have followed on foot, the students staggered their way down to the piers of Whitecrown and caught a gondola straight into the Ease. Ash had to scramble to flag down another boat and convince the gondolier that his drunken friends had heartlessly abandoned him. After talking his way into the group, he spent the rest of the night traipsing after them from bar to brothel to bar.

Meanwhile, I dressed down as a streetsweeper and tailed Helker to and from work. For someone with such a bloody history, the general led an incredibly boring life. She was happily married to a prim little lawyer named Tocker who worked in Charterhall. The couple had two children, aged thirteen and sixteen, plus one dog. Every morning, she took the family carriage across Bowmore Bridge to Doskvol Academy, taught three classes, supervised her research group, and returned home for dinner with the family. The only unconventional thing about the Helkers was that Tocker had taken Ronia's last name when they married.

After a week of surveillance, we finally gleaned the general's one human failing. After a bowl of particularly atrocious bar fare, a student revealed to Ash that on special occasions, Ronia and her husband dined at the Golden Plum, that legendary establishment in Six Towers.

According to restaurant staff, her favorite dish was a Skovlander delicacy: "Beef and teggsvamp stew," explained the kitchen girl, rolling her eyes. "They say she tasted it in Skovlan during the war and fell in love with it." A bit of prodding elicited the explanation that the teggsvamp was a rare mushroom that grew only in northern Skovlan and had to be imported into Akoros at great expense.

"We could try to poison the mushrooms," Ash mused, "but it would be hard to target specifically."

I shrugged. "Does it really matter if we kill her husband?"

"Well, it would hurt our reputation for precise operations," he pointed out.

Faith agreed with him. "After all, we wouldn't want to get sloppy and kill a second person without getting paid for it!"

"Okay, how about kidnapping her kids and luring her somewhere?" I suggested.

Ash shot down the idea immediately. "That's too risky. When you kidnap children, the parents tend to call out the cavalry."

And in this case, the cavalry might very well be the entire Imperial military.

He proposed, "I think a hit on her carriage in Six Towers is our best option."

After some more wrangling, we decided that the next time the Helkers dined at the Golden Plum, Ash and I would drug the coachman while he waited, knock him out when he rushed to the privy, and replace him as drivers. Meanwhile, Faith would raise a ghost riot in the streets, "forcing" us to detour into a deserted area (not hard to find at night in Six Towers), where we'd puff trance powder into the carriage and team up on the Helkers.

"Alternatively, you can drive the carriage right into the canal! There's a _lovely_ little canal south of the restaurant!" Faith cried excitedly. "We'll get the husband out, and then my lovely, lovely specter friends in the water can invite Ronia to a party! At the bottom of the canal! We can even toss in the driver so it looks like he was drunk and confused!"

Now that we had a plan, all we needed was an occasion.

We got it on the anniversary of the Battle of Blackvale, the Unity War turning point after which Imperial triumph became inevitable.


	15. General Ronia Helker

On the eve of the anniversary of the battle, the Golden Plum's kitchen girl met me after her shift, scowling ferociously. "Chef got a box of teggsvamp mushrooms today," she groused. "I _hate _cleaning 'em. They're so soft that they break easy, and if they break before you cook 'em, they go all bitter and spoil."

She was almost as bad as my archivist. "What is the significance of this shipment?" I prompted patiently.

"Oh!" The kitchen girl suddenly recalled that I didn't work at the Golden Plum. "It means Herself is coming tomorrow. For her beef and teggsvamp stew. Chef makes it up special every time. As if we didn't have enough work already." She scowled again to express her disapproval of people who traveled to foreign lands, developed a taste for outlandishly finicky foreign delicacies, and then insisted that said foreign delicacies be reproduced in Doskvol – specifically, in her kitchen.

Personally, I was curious about this ethnic Skovlander dish that Mother had never mentioned, but I certainly wasn't curious enough to wait three months for a dinner reservation.

When I reported back to the others, Ash immediately rushed to Six Towers to befriend the chestnut seller who occupied the corner near the Golden Plum.

* * *

The next evening, bundled up in layers of armor and disguises, Ash and I loitered by the man's cart, crunching hot roasted chestnuts and chatting casually with him while surveilling the restaurant. Somewhere in the direction of the canal, Faith was hopefully perched on a rooftop, inciting her ghostly riot.

At precisely the hour of honor, a goat-drawn carriage bearing the Helker coat of arms rattled to a stop in front of the Golden Plum. Out stepped the general, resplendent in her dress uniform. She turned to help out her husband, a bookish-looking fellow in a sharp frock coat.

"That's Gen'ral Helker," the chestnut seller said conversationally, nodding at the couple. He watched her march through the front door, medals glinting in the electroplasmic lights. "Must be something to do with the Unity War if she's here again."

My attention was on the coachman. After he drove the carriage around to the side, he hitched the goats to a post and trotted towards us, rubbing his hands and huffing on them to warm them.

"Well, I see a customer! Don't let us keep you!" Ash gave the vendor a friendly smile and patted the metal barrel of chestnuts fondly.

Completely unaware that his wares would now induce violent bellyaches, the seller hurried forward. "Ah, good sir," he called ingratiatingly, "hot roasted chestnuts?"

Leaving them to it, Ash and I strolled around the corner into a dark alley, from which we could observe both the front door of the Golden Plum and the carriage. "Is Faith in place?" I asked softly.

"Yes." Ash tipped his head down the street.

Through the mist, I could barely make out a tiny figure leaning jauntily against a chimney. If all went well, the coachman would soon flee for the privy, upon which the two of us would knock him out and steal his livery.

But all did not go well. Just as the man pressed a hand to his belly and groaned, a messenger raced into the restaurant. Moments later, the Helkers dashed out and flung themselves into the carriage, Ronia bellowing, "Charterhall! Go go go!"

Temporarily forgetting his distress, the coachman sprang onto his seat, cracked his whip, and sent the goats galloping west towards the bridge to Charterhall.

"Quick!" cried Ash. Tearing off our street clothing to reveal frock coats and pinstriped trousers, we darted towards the nearest hansom for hire, pretending to be patrons of the Golden Plum. "Follow that carriage!" he ordered the driver as we leaped into the cab, rocking it back and forth.

Totally unfazed, the driver clucked at his goat and it plodded obediently after the Helkers. "Hehehehe," he cackled salaciously through the trap door, "that's a nice carriage, innit? Is it him or her that's caught yer fancy?"

Channeling my inner Faith, I batted my eyelashes up at him and replied flirtatiously, "Why, both of them, of course!"

Ash repressed a sigh.

"Hehehehe, never you worry! I'll won't let you lose them!"

As our hansom clattered over the cobblestones at a much less-than-breakneck speed, I fixed my eyes anxiously on Faith's rooftop. Had she seen the target leave? Had she had enough time to summon her specters?

All of a sudden, a giant, ragged phantom exploded out of the ghost field right behind the Helkers. So old that it barely looked human anymore, driven to ravening by life-lust, it locked hollow, pitch-black eye holes on the carriage and shrieked wildly.

Bleating with frenzy, the Helkers' goats bolted forward mindlessly – only to screech to a halt just inches from a bluish-white vortex of open mouths and grasping hands that blocked the entire street. The goats screamed and backed up frantically, nearly upsetting the carriage in their panic.

"What in blazes is that?" shouted our driver. Much more accustomed to specters than the Helkers' team, the Six Towers goat twitched its ears and continued to trot forward unconcernedly.

Barely clinging to his own sanity and shouting, "Gee up! Gee up!" over and over, the Helkers' coachman yanked hard on the reins. The carriage veered left so sharply that it nearly overturned – I held my breath, hoping – then righted itself and careened down a side street, heading south towards the canal and the bridge to Nightmarket and safety.

"Keep going!" I yelled up through the trap door. "Don't lose them!"

More and more specters plus a haunt or two sped out of the surrounding neighborhood to join the riot, but under Faith's skillful control, the big ghost never wavered. It swooped after the carriage like a deformed, translucent sheepdog.

Exhaling sharply, Ash whined in an upper-class accent, "Six Towers has gotten so dangerous! What are we even doing here? True, Chef Roselle is brilliant, but can her restaurant possibly be worth this hazard to life and limb?"

"Lady!" the driver shouted down at me, "I don't care how pretty that lord and lady are. They're not worth yer life!"

Just a block away by this point, the ghostly uproar kept growing, the high-pitched shrieks reverberating almost unbearably through our skulls. All around us, shutters slammed shut as the residents of Six Towers hunkered down to wait out the riot.

"_I _will decide! Keep going!" I ordered the driver.

"No! It's not worth _my_ life!"

Hauling on the reins as hard as he could, he sent us hurtling down a side street.

"No! Stop! Go back!" I yelled frantically.

"No! Yer mad!"

"Then pull over!"

"No!"

It took us five heart-stopping blocks to calm him enough to let us out, and he was so rattled that he clattered off before we could pay him.

Staring around the dark, twisty alley, I tried to get my bearings. "Where are we?"

Ash darted to the intersection and looked up and down the street. "We're four blocks east of the bridge," he called. "Hurry!" Without waiting, he took off.

I raced after him, catching up easily and matching his rhythm. In silence, we ran a block south, hit the canal, turned right, and jogged along its black waters.

"There!" I wheezed, pointing.

In the distance, a carriage chased by a big, ragged ghost was just careening onto the bridge, axles creaking and wheels skidding.

Adrenaline spurred us into a sprint, but just then, the icy mist turned into an equally icy, needle-sharp rain, stinging our eyes and turning the cobblestones slippery and treacherous beneath our feet and forcing us to slow again.

Faith must have seen our struggle.

All of a sudden, the big ghost vanished with a thunderclap that terrorized the goats into leaping forward. They were halfway across the bridge when the ghost reappeared on the other side, rising out of the ground with slow, deliberate menace, its entire head region distorted by a huge, jagged grin.

This was too much for the goats. Rearing up, they bleated and kicked their front hooves frantically. Yelling and cursing, the coachman fought desperately to regain control. "Whoa! Whoa! Easy! Easy there!" he shouted.

The big ghost simply hovered midair over the end of the bridge, waiting patiently for its prey. One taloned limb rose and beckoned lazily.

Shouts drifted out of the carriage, but we were too far away to make out the words.

Eyes practically bulging out of his head with fear, the coachman jerked the reins to the left and whipped the goats into a trot, but even though the bridge was wide enough for two large vehicles to pass each other normally, it had not been designed for U-turns at speed in the rain. Slipping and sliding across the slick ground, the goats smashed straight into the railing, splintering the wooden bars and lacerating their legs and chests and bleating heartbreakingly. Too panicked to notice or care, the coachman lashed their backs viciously and shouted at them to back up, which they did – only to jam the back of the carriage into the railing on the opposite side of the bridge and get well and truly stuck.

A woman's voice roared out the window, "Drive forward _slowly_!"

It was nearly drowned out by the goats' screams.

In the midst of all this confusion, Ash's backup plan swung into action. Up the street from Nightmarket came a clattering of hooves and rattling of rusty metal. Trailing shouts of "Watch out!" and "Runaway cart!" a scraggly old goat pulling a broken-down farm wagon charged onto the bridge and slammed right into the side of the carriage. There was a great splintering crash, broken wheels and sharp pieces of wood flew everywhere, the Helker goats bleated even more loudly, and the poor cart-goat, impaled on a broken axle, flailed and screamed in agony.

The carriage door flew open with a bang, and out clambered the Helkers: Ronia with her service pistol drawn, Tocker cowering behind her and clinging to her coattails. Calmly, the general assessed the situation, planted her feet, and fired an electroplasmic round squarely into the big ghost, disintegrating the center of its body. It swirled and howled so loudly that I shuddered, Ash missed a step, and the coachman huddled in on himself and clapped both hands over his ears.

Totally unconcerned, Ronia lowered the pistol, seized her husband's hand, and poised to sprint for Nightmarket.

Skidding to a stop at the mouth of the bridge, I fired one wild shot at the target before dashing forward again. The bullet went wide and exploded the railing to Ronia's left. Little chips of wood sprayed all over her and her husband, who yelped and tripped over his own feet.

"Get down!" Ronia commanded. Dropping his hand, she grimly reloaded her pistol with another electroplasmic round.

On the far side of the bridge, the pieces of the big ghost knit themselves back together, hovered, smoking slightly, to check that it was whole – and then lunged straight for Tocker, jaws open wide enough to swallow him in one gulp. At the very last second, it veered just far enough off course to miss, but its frayed edges brushed over and through him and froze him in place with its weird electric-blue glow.

Tocker broke.

Sobbing hysterically, he literally flung himself at the carriage and tried to scramble up and over it.

"Tocker, come back!" shouted Ronia urgently over her shoulder, pointing her pistol at me.

From behind me, Ash's shot whizzed past my head and buried itself in the ground by her feet.

But now I was in sword range. Without slowing, I thrust Grandfather at her belly, but she stepped aside nimbly, let my momentum carry me past her, and coolly shot me point-blank in the back.

I jerked forward as if she'd punched me, nearly fell flat on my face, and staggered a few steps before I could regain my balance. Under my torn frock coat, my armor cracked and smoked.

Whistles and pounding boots in the distance heralded the arrival of Nightmarket Bluecoats.

Bounding past us, Ash rushed to intercept them and send them the wrong way. "Shots fired!" I heard him crying. "That way!"

Faith's voice sang out soothingly behind me, "Come over here, Mr. Helker! You'll be safe over here!"

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Tocker abandoning his mad climb and stumbling towards Faith.

"Tocker! Wait!" yelled Ronia, but she was too busy trying to wrestle a third round out of her pocket to stop him.

Faith darted forward, grabbed Tocker's hand, gently led him away from us – and promptly got jumped by three small, vicious ghosts.

"Why, aren't you the ones I met at the Sensorium?" she cried out in evident delight. "You tracked me all the way here? You clever, clever things!"

With a wave of her lightning hook, she casually brushed them away. Two vibrated resentfully and prowled in circles around her, but the third darted past the hook and sank all the way into Tocker. His body went stiff for a split second, but then his face relaxed as it took full possession.

"How about a teensy-weensy bit of help here, dear?" Faith called gaily across the bridge.

A ragged, glowing form swooped past me and lunged at the newcomers, scattering them like old handbills in the wind.

_Grandfather!_ I cried desperately._ Help me!_

Wisps of pitch-black smoke curled up from its tip, and I stabbed Ronia all the way through her armor – a blow that would have incapacitated any normal target.

But the general was just too tough. Tossing her pistol aside and pressing one hand to her side to staunch the bleeding, she drew a long knife with the other and thrust at me.

I barely dodged.

At that moment, Ash came charging across the bridge and plunged his dagger straight into her back.

She roared in pain and fury.

On the Six Towers side of the canal, a streetlight blinked out as if extinguished. An arc of crackling blue lightning leaped from it into the tip of Faith's lightning hook, then veered sharply and speared right into Ronia's chest. Electricity sparked and danced all over her body, dazing and disorienting her briefly.

In the distance, on the Nightmarket side, the detachment of Bluecoats was pounding back along the canal towards the bridge. Any moment now, they would realize that this was no mere road accident.

There was no time to think.

Flinging my arms around the general, I dragged her to the broken railing and threw both of us over the side and into the black water.

Oh, forgotten gods, it was cold! My fingers went numb almost immediately. Accustomed to campaigning in Skovlan, the general had no such problems. She grappled and pummeled me as I struggled to disentangle my arm far enough to stab her.

Then, out of nowhere, something long and sinuous and scaly wrapped around her waist and started to haul her down. Releasing me, she kicked and punched it furiously, but the thing only tightened its hold and started squeezing the air out of her lungs. Her eyes went wide, and a little trail of bubbles escaped her lips.

At the same time, a tentacle looped around my ankle but slipped off. Still clinging to Grandfather, I fought my way upward until my head broke the surface.

Above me, Ash was running back and forth along the canal on the Six Towers side, shouting like a panicked nobleman and waving his arms in distress. As soon as he spotted me, he rushed to the edge and leaned all the way over the ledge, stretching out both hands.

I latched onto them, and he hoisted me halfway out before a tentacle whipped out of the water, seized the gibbering coachman, and dragged him in. Before I had time to shout a warning, a second tentacle shot up, lassoed Ash's neck, and dragged him – and me along with him – into the canal with a great splash.

Back in the icy blackness, I waved Grandfather, trying frantically to figure out what was Ash and what was water demon. Sharp claws the size of sickles sliced into both my legs, and I opened my mouth to scream, only to choke on filthy canal water.

In my head, Grandfather's voice roared: _You can't have her! She's _mine_!_

Abruptly, the claws loosened and sank into the depths.

I groped blindly for Ash, seized a handful of fabric, and kicked furiously for the surface, hoping I was heading the right way.

There.

A flash of brilliant bluish-white light illuminated the water. I swam for it until my head broke the surface.

Air. Blessed air.

I coughed and swiped at my eyes to clear them, and when I could finally see again, I found Ash treading water two feet away. He pointed wordlessly upward. On the bank above us, Faith was gleefully pulling power from the streetlights and hurling bolt after bolt into the canal like so many javelins. Behind her, the big ghost shredded one of the smaller ghosts, billowed out like a fishing net, and caught and swallowed every last piece, then chased down the other ghost and devoured it too. Glowing more brightly, looking a lot less ragged now, it contentedly drifted around a corner and out of sight.

Awkwardly, I fumbled around until I could re-sheathe Grandfather, then heaved myself onto the ledge and hauled Ash up after me. The two of us managed to crawl halfway up the embankment before collapsing, panting and gasping and still hacking up canal water.

On the opposite bank, Tocker was glowing a brilliant blue and gibbering in tongues in the center of a ring of Bluecoats, none of whom were paying us commoners any attention.

"Well," proclaimed Faith with a very satisfied air, trotting over and helping Ash to his feet, "they'll take him to the Spirit Wardens and un-possess him, and that will be that. I'd call this a most successful evening."

Sprawled in the dirt with my legs cut nearly to the bone by demonic claws, I couldn't quite agree.


	16. Bazso's Townhouse

"I'm fine. Seriously, I can take care of myself. I'm _just fine_!"

Irritably, I tried to bat away Faith's and Ash's hands so I could sneak off and make my own way to Crow's Foot. If I could just reach his home, Bazso would make everything all better. He'd answer the door, take one look at me, and help me inside. Then he'd sit beside me while Sawbones patched me up, holding my hand and chatting matter-of-factly about Lampblack business to take my mind off the pain. Best of all, he would never, _ever_ embarrass me by fussing over my injuries.

However, he might feel a lot less inclined to help if I popped up on his doorstep with a complete stranger – plus Faith. Even if his address were an open secret in Crow's Foot, that didn't mean I could just hand it out at will.

"I can get to a doctor by myself," I insisted. "I'm perfectly fine!"

"No, you really aren't. You can't even stand up on your own," Ash pointed out, kneeling on my left and slinging one of my arms over his shoulders.

"Of _course_ she's perfectly all right," objected Faith with a saccharine smile, taking my other side. On Ash's count of three, they stood, hoisting me to my feet. A little yelp escaped my lips when they jostled my legs, and Faith practically radiated earnest belief. "She's just staggering and swaying and slipping in pools of her own blood. I've never seen her better!"

Well, no one said I needed to _walk_ all the way to Crow's Foot. I could crawl if I had to.

Overriding my protests, the two flagged down a cab, carefully maneuvered me into it, climbed in after me, and then stared at me expectantly. With a sigh, I gave the driver the address of Bazso's townhouse.

"Crow's Foot, miss?" asked the cabbie, sounding a little alarmed.

"It's the _nicer_ part of Crow's Foot," I snapped, in no mood to coddle him. Despite their best efforts, Ash and Faith had banged one of my legs into the bench and that _hurt_.

"What my dear friend means to say," explained Faith innocently, "is that there are the murderous parts of Crow's Foot, and then there are the slightly less murderous parts of Crow's Foot, and we're going to the slightly less murderous part even if we have to pass through the murderous part to get there, but regardless you don't have to worry because you probably won't be murdered!"

It might have been more convincing if she hadn't phrased it quite that way.

"Plus we'll pay extra – but only if you hurry," added Ash, which probably contributed a lot more to the cabbie's decision to whip his goat into motion.

As we rattled down the streets of Six Towers, I could swear that I felt every single pothole and every last cobblestone. Somewhere during that drive, I must have passed out, because the next thing I knew, I was dangling between my crewmates on a familiar doorstep and Faith was declaiming loudly enough to wake the whole district, "Disaster and tragedy have struck! Isha has been gravely injured. I'm afraid that scars will mar her beauty forever!"

With an effort, I tilted my head upward and met Bazso's startled look. He was still wearing his shirt and trousers, so at least we hadn't rousted him out of bed. "I _told _them I'm _fine_," I sighed. "They insisted on coming."

Assessing me from head to toe with a professional air, Bazso didn't even bother to dignify that with a response. He immediately moved out of the doorway and pointed at what passed for a parlor in his bachelor pad. "Bring her in here," he directed Ash and Faith, then called over his shoulder at an urchin dozing nearby, "Bug, get Sawbones."

Of course it had to be Bug. The boy glowered at me as if it were all my fault that he was losing precious beauty sleep, but he did bound lightly to his feet and disappear into the fog.

"What happened?" Bazso demanded as Faith and Ash carefully lowered me onto the sofa and arranged me lengthwise along it.

Straightening and shaking out her skirts, Faith launched gleefully into a dramatic tale worthy of a Spiregarden production. "Well, you see, we were ambushed – ambushed, I tell you! – on the streets of Six Towers by five thugs in black gowns. They had us surrounded! They had us cornered! It would have been the end of us, but Isha was there! Isha wasn't frightened at all! Oh no, she drew her sword with a bloodcurdling war cry and charged right at them! Ash and I stood back and watched in awe as she dispatched every last ruffian on her own."

Taking a little too much interest in her theatrics, Ash reminded her drily, "Don't forget the tentacled demon."

"Ah yes! The tentacled demon! How could I have forgotten the tentacled demon? It came out of nowhere and was thiiiiiiis big – "

If she kept talking, I was going to track down the nearest tentacled demon and feed her to it. One limb at a time. Everything below my waist felt as if it were on fire, and my head pounded harder with every word she uttered.

"We killed Ronia Helker," I stated flatly.

Startled, Ash jerked a little and stared down at me. _Is this a good idea_? he hand-signed incredulously. _Do you trust him this much?_

Yes? No? Maybe?

Bazso, who knew better than to hover, had been standing guard in the parlor doorway, keeping one eye on the front door while half-listening to Faith's "report." At my announcement, he went dead still for one split second. Then he whirled around, strode straight across the parlor to his sideboard, and produced a bottle of – yes, excellent whiskey. "This calls for a celebration," he pronounced with grim satisfaction.

"Oh, no no no," Faith said hastily, backing away and feigning maidenly distress. "_I_ wasn't involved _at all_ in any kind of killing whatsoever."

"Even if you only watched, miss, you get whiskey too," Bazso informed her.

At that moment, the front door slammed shut, and he practically leaped back across the parlor to accost the newcomer.

"Ronia Helker is dead." Bazso shoved the bottle at a rumpled-looking Sawbones.

The good doctor stopped short, blinked in confusion, decided that details were irrelevant when there was good whiskey to be drunk, and took a deep swig instead.

"Which one is the patient?" he asked, eyeing all three of us. Considering how much of my blood stained Faith's and Ash's clothing, it was a fair question.

"Isha." Reclaiming the bottle, Bazso gently eased onto the sofa beside me and shifted my head into his lap.

"Her legs are all sliced up," Faith supplied helpfully, perching on an ottoman next to the doctor so she could get a better view.

Bending over my legs, Sawbones carefully peeled away my shredded trousers. "I…see," he agreed absently. "Indeed they are, miss."

Dried blood had glued fabric to flesh, and I flinched again and again as he pulled it off inch by agonizing inch. Pride kept my jaw clenched, but I grabbed Bazso's hand and clung to it with all my strength. A veteran of countless triage operations, Bazso put a reassuring arm around my shoulders and held the bottle to my lips. "Drink," he suggested. So I did, but I still jumped when Sawbones stabbed a needle through my skin.

"This will go faster if you hold still, miss," he informed me with some asperity.

"Ooh, that looks like it hurt!" exclaimed Faith, bending over so close that Sawbones nearly bumped into her nose. "I haven't seen a cut that deep since – "

Surprisingly, rage proved a better painkiller than whiskey, so I gritted my teeth and tallied up all the times I needed to kick her. After my legs healed, of course, so I could deploy the appropriate amount of force.

"Oh, and is that _bone_ I see? Now that's a nasty gash, if I do say so myself!"

Much more accustomed to good old-fashioned cursing, poor Sawbones looked disconcerted by Faith's running commentary. "What did this to her, miss, do you know?"

Of all the people to ask!

"Oh, oh, yes, I do know! It was a huuuuuuuuge tentacled demon! It had suckers bigger than my ruffles!" She stopped talking long enough to take stock of her outfit. "Oh, by the way, Isha, you owe me a new dress. I'll never get the bloodstains out of this one."

I glared at her.

"It's okay. You can go shopping with me. After you recover, of course," she assured me magnanimously.

"So what _really_ happened?" Bazso was asking Ash _sotto voce_.

"You know I don't like to go into detail about my other affairs," Ash reproved him.

"Wait," I said, jerking up partway and provoking a sharp, "Don't move!" from Sawbones. Bazso's arm tightened around my shoulders, and I lay back down obediently, craning my neck awkwardly to look from one to the other. "Wait a minute. Do the two of you _know_ each other already?"

Echoing my shock, Faith gasped, raised a hand to her throat, and swayed on the verge of fainting.

Both men gave me carefully neutral stares.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I demanded, seizing on something else to be angry over.

They exchanged a wary glance before Ash explained vaguely, "We wouldn't want any life to be wasted when there is profit to be had."

Yes, yes, I'd heard that all before. I'd witnessed it myself, even, in the carriage with Vhetin Kellis.

Sounding uncharacteristically embarrassed, Bazso pointed out, "It's kind of like how you don't like to talk about your sword, Isha." _Or your real name_, he didn't say.

"Yes, but why did both of you keep it a secret from me?" My voice grew more and more shrill, until Faith cringed and clapped her hands over her ears. Served her right if she went deaf. All along I'd known that Bazso didn't trust me completely, but it still hurt to have it confirmed so obviously and publicly. "I know you, and I know Ash, and both of you know that I know, um, the other." I fumbled for the right grammar. "So why didn't either of you tell me that you knew each other? What's so secret about it?"

"Oh, my!" breathed Faith, teetering on the edge of the ottoman. "What a scandal!"

Getting irritated himself, Ash snapped, "You're certainly welcome to come drinking with us, although you don't look like you're capable of it at the moment."

A horrible thought occurred to me and I blurted out, "Bazso! Do you provide dead – I mean mostly dead – people to Ash for his rituals?"

"No, no, no, nothing like that," he immediately reassured me, looking taken aback by the accusation. Gang warfare was one thing – but arcane murder?

I thought he might be a little more inclined to talk if I stopped screeching, so I forced myself to relax, cuddled up as best as I could – "Hold _still_!" Sawbones complained – and batted my eyelashes. "I don't understand," I wheedled in an injured tone that was only partially feigned. "I know both of you. Why didn't either of you tell me that you're friends too?"

Frowning, Bazso glared down at me for a long moment, silently reminding me that he'd just told me that he didn't like to discuss certain things and that he didn't like repeating himself. Then he must have decided that anyone who assassinated Ronia Helker deserved a little leeway, because he began gently, "Well, you know I was born in Lockport, right?"

"Yes, so…?"

"So that…does things to a man." He paused significantly, as if I should understand what he meant.

I shook my head and stared back at him blankly.

"You suggested that I provide services to Ash, but it's actually the other way around."

Now I felt even more confused. What sort of services could Ash possibly provide the head of the Lampblacks?

Bazso hesitated, then spelled it out in a rush: "My internal organs were mutated by the toxic rain in Lockport. Ash's family specializes healing potions, arcane organs, the like. Ash supplies me with potions to keep me alive."

About to ask Ash why he'd never mentioned _that _aspect of his family's dealings, I stopped short. Bazso, the unflappable head of the Lampblacks, kept alive only by dint of an unbroken supply of arcane potions? Bazso, the fearless fighter, so fragile that if the Slanes or one of his enemies cut off that supply he'd simply _die_? I couldn't bear the thought. The man was a legend, an institution. If _he_ died, it would be as if the moon had shattered and left only the glittering stars in the sky.

Giving Bazso's hand a remorseful squeeze, I muttered, "I'm sorry. I had no idea…. Let me know if there's anything I can do to help."

Such as kill the Slanes if they tried to extort him.

Bazso must have trusted avaricious part-demon Tycherosi merchants more than I did, because he only replied, "Thank you, Isha, but you don't exactly specialize in providing functioning pancreases."

With that, Faith agreed wholeheartedly. "No, she does the opposite."

"Although," added Bazso with morbid humor, "if you bring me Mylera's pancreas…."

I elbowed him as hard as I could.

"Ow," he complained, not really meaning it.

Faith finally got bored with the entire topic of pancreases, functioning or otherwise. "Hey, Isha," she sang, planting her elbows on her knees and propping her chin on her hands, "you seem to be really friendly with Mylera. What do you think of her as a person?"

Even though he was the one who'd _sent_ me to spy on Mylera in the first place, Bazso stiffened.

Yep, Faith was going to get kicked sometime in the very near future. Possibly into the closest, carnivorous-eel-filled canal.

With evident relief, the long-suffering Sawbones announced, "Done!" and snipped off the last thread. I wasn't even sure Bazso heard him through whatever horrible suspicions were filling his mind.

Luckily, Ash intervened before I killed Faith or Bazso killed me right in the parlor. "Perhaps we should start looking for our next score," he suggested in a total _non sequitur_. "One can never have too much coin saved up."

"I may not be able to move for a while," I pointed out, pulling one arm free from Bazso to gesture meaningfully at my legs.

Packing away his instruments, Sawbones nodded emphatically.

"Ah, well," shrugged Ash philosophically. "That's all right. But you can collect the rest of our payment from our clients, right?"

"Yes." Vaati never missed class, and, as Faith had pointed out to the boys, I could find him and little Jin easily enough if they tried to renege on our deal.

As stone-faced as one of the statues on Bowmore Bridge, Bazso didn't register our conversation at all.

Off to the side, Sawbones clapped his case shut and looked at his leader expectantly, but there was no reaction. He picked up his bag with exaggerated movements, then sidled towards the doorway. When that still failed to elicit his fee, he hinted, "Bazso, I'm done here."

At that, Bazso snapped out of his thoughts at last. "Well, if that's all," he said, "then I suggest that we all get some rest."

Easing my head onto a cushion, he stood and gestured the others out of the room. "Night, Isha," he told me, his eyes softening a little when he caught sight of my reaction. "Rest. You've earned it." Then he switched off the gas lamps and shut the parlor door.


	17. Housekeeping Activities

Whatever Bazso believed or suspected about the nature of my relationship with Mylera, it didn't stop him from installing me in his spare bedroom for my convalescence. As if to convince me – or himself – that he trusted me, he even made a point of coming home in time for supper every evening so he could regale me with the latest developments in the Crow's Foot political landscape.

"Lyssa just isn't what Roric was," he concluded smugly after telling me how the Lampblacks had gotten the best of the Crows in a territorial scrabble.

That did seem to be the general consensus.

Taking advantage of his good mood, I observed, "Yes, Mylera feels the same way." Since his face didn't cloud over too much, I pushed my luck. "Bazso, have you had a chance to think more about working with the Red Sashes? Just for as long as you need to drive out the Hive?"

Busying himself with his eel pie and dropping bits of crust all over the floor, he shook his head without meeting my eyes.

"If you're worrying about her competence, you don't need to," I assured him, pretending that his assessment of Mylera's intelligence was the only concern here. "She's quite good at what she does." Quickly, I summarized what her network of informants had reported about bee-marked containers down at the Docks.

"Mmhmm," was his only response.

"You can't take on the Hive alone, Bazso," I persisted, trying to make him see sense. "You just don't have the resources. And neither do the Red Sashes. But together – together you can push them out and retake the Docks."

At last, he laid down his fork with great precision. "And why do you care so much, Isha?" he asked in that terrifyingly controlled way of his. I'd heard him use exactly the same tone while interrogating a Lampblack caught selling secrets to the Billhooks.

I poked at my pie while picking my words carefully. "Well, you know that I come from a big family, right?" I asked, knowing perfectly well that he knew no such thing. At the unexpected confidence, his eyebrows rose slightly. "There's…there's a lot of strife between the branches – " which was putting it mildly – "and it weakens the entire family…."

In my mind's eye, blood splattered across the walls glistened sullenly in the morning light. More blood squelched underfoot as my brother and I tiptoed across the carpet, hand in hand….

With more passion than I'd intended, I finished, "I'd _hate_ to see it play out here."

It worked. Relaxing, Bazso picked up his beer mug. "But this is different. Mylera and I _aren't_ family," he pointed out quite reasonably.

"But – " I scrambled for a rejoinder. "But you live in the same place. You…you have more in common with each other than with those rich bloodsuckers forcing their way in."

"What does Mylera plan to do?" he asked abruptly.

I shook my head. "Nothing concrete yet."

He shook his head too, albeit for a different reason. "Roric would have taken care of it," he remarked almost wistfully, as if recalling the days when he _didn't_ need to be the biggest, baddest gang leader in all of Crow's Foot.

"Roric is dead," I reminded him tartly, "and Lyssa isn't what he was. Mylera knows this too – that's why she isn't even going to the Crows."

"And she might be willing to come to the _Lampblacks_?" Bazso's voice rose skeptically.

Well, not really. At least, not yet. "She's not entirely opposed to the possibility of working together in the face of a common foe," I said primly, adopting the most generous possible interpretation of Mylera's flat "I'll take it under advisement."

In the exact same tone as hers, Bazso told me, "I'll think about it."

And that was that.

* * *

While he went about Lampblack business and stubbornly refused to meet with Mylera, I turned to helping Faith and Ash lower our heat after that very public, very messy business on the bridge. Putting her dramatics to good use at last, Faith penned a lurid letter to the _Dockside Telegraph_ claiming shocking new evidence that the Helkers had gotten entangled in the coils of a demonic plot. After the tabloid gleefully ran it alongside a slew of other conspiracy theories, she visited a few coffeehouses and whispered that the general must have been poisoned, because everyone knew that no mere demon could take down Ronia Helker.

Getting into the spirit of things, Ash methodically spread the rumor that Helker's death could be traced back to the Avrathis. It was their follow-up to Merrick Dillingham's murder, he accused, carefully calculated to prove that no citizen of Doskvol was safe in his or her own bed.

Meanwhile, propped up in bed with pen and packaging, I helped manufacture an evidence trail suggesting that an assassin crew from elsewhere was extending tendrils into the city. Ash and I bribed Gaddock Rail porters to smuggle our boxes out of Doskvol and then deliver them back into the city to a mail drop that the Bluecoats were already monitoring.

Between the three of us, we managed to throw their investigation off our tracks entirely.

* * *

Having wrangled a bit of breathing space, my crewmates felt safe enough to indulge their usual vices. Shut up in Bazso's townhouse and bored out of my mind, I relied on my informants' reports to follow their activities.

Ash, of course, promptly headed to the Temple to the Forgotten Gods and stayed there for two and a half hours, playing a sort of complicated board game on the altar of That Which Hungers. "It's called Financiopoly," explained Ilacille's young acolyte, his white robes concealed under a dark cloak. "You compute different rates of compound interests, choose your investments, and use coin tokens to 'buy' properties and crooked politicians. The goal is to take over a city financially."

That did seem like a game both Ash and his god would appreciate.

As for Faith, she paid her usual visit to the Sensorium for a relaxing session of other people's memories, after which she interrogated the staff about who'd hurt Madame Keitel. "I don't know who did it!" babbled the archivist, too shaky to sit still after that encounter. "All I know is that the Bluecoats took her to the Crow's Foot precinct! I told her that weeks ago! I don't know what else she wanted me to say!"

A rather surly Bug provided the second part of that story when he slouched into my room the next day. "You gonna pay me or what?" was how he greeted me.

"Manners, Bug!" admonished Bazso, who "just happened to be passing by." He cuffed the urchin gently on the side of the head and popped back into the hallway (probably to eavesdrop).

The boy scowled and rubbed his head exaggeratedly. "So?" he demanded.

"Depends on what you have for me," I retorted.

He scowled again but rattled off, "I followed Ruffle Girl like you asked. You know that ghost what hangs out by the station and eats Bluecoats?" I nodded as if I'd known that all along. "Ol' Ribbon 'n Ruffles went right up to it and asked what happened to her friend."

That certainly lined up with Faith's modus operandi. "And what did the ghost say?"

Bug stared at me meaningfully until I tossed him a copper. "It said the Billhooks were sniffing around, asking what happened to their Whisper. They're all friendly with the Bluecoats, y'know." He said it as if he expected me _not_ to know.

"_Which_ Billhooks were sniffing around?"

That was important. At last count, the gang had split into three warring factions. One supported the old leader, Tarvul Burns, who was serving a life sentence in Ironhook Prison but who still kept a hand in matters, or so it was said. A second faction backed his sister Erin, while a third had thrown in their lot with his son Coran. Billhook affairs sounded almost as messy as U'Duashan House politics.

"Dunno," shrugged Bug. "They had billhooks," he informed me, as if that helped.

It took two more coppers, but eventually I got rid of him.

* * *

As soon as I could hobble around, I dragged myself to the Red Sash Sword Academy to teach my class. Even if I couldn't demonstrate anything, I could still sit on a couch and yell at my students: "Fix that guard!" And, "Your side is wide open! You know better!"

I wasn't sure how much my students got out of that lesson, but it made _me _feel better.

Plus I collected the rest of our payment from Vaati, which made Ash feel better.

* * *

"So what's the Sensorium like?" Ash asked Faith curiously when they visited me that evening. "Can you tell me more about it?"

In her most sultry tone, she responded, "It's a beautiful den of sensual pleasures." Then she burst out giggling at her own silliness.

I rolled my eyes, picked at my bedspread, and waited to see if she'd comment on her investigation. Of course she didn't.

"But it's a den of _memories_, yes?" persisted Ash.

Heaving a weary sigh, as if she had to correct misunderstandings about the nature of the Sensorium all the time, Faith sank down in her chair. "Well, if you're being _liberal_ about the definition, yes." Then, suddenly, as if she just had an exciting thought, she bounced back up. "Ash! Are you interested in going? I can take you! I can introduce you! Madame Keitel is _particular_ about her clientele, you see."

To my surprise, Ash actually entertained the idea. "Yes, that could be interesting," he replied thoughtfully. "Tell me, what do you need in order to extract a person's memory? Their essence? Their life? A piece of their heart?"

Flippantly, Faith continued the list, "Their last breath, the name of a lover…."

"Do you need to harvest their ghost?" he asked, sounding way too hopeful.

Faith looked as appalled as if he'd tried to drink coffee out of a teacup. "Why, that would be so vulgar!" she exclaimed.

But I noticed that she still didn't explain the procedure.

Noting the exact same thing, Ash decided, "I'd like to explore this unusual experience. I really am curious about this practice of selling off pieces of your memories."

* * *

Unsurprisingly, my archivist soon paid me another visit to report that Mistress Karstas had returned sooner than expected, this time bringing a friend with her, a young man of obviously demonic origins. "His entire right arm was black!" he hissed, casting nervous glances around my room as if a black-armed demon might pop up right then and there. "All black! Like a – a piece of coal!" (That was technically incorrect. Ash's arm was only pitch black up to the elbow – or so he claimed.)

"And what was he looking for?" I asked, pretending that I had no idea who this demonic friend might be and hoping fervently that Ash wouldn't choose that moment to walk through the door.

"He asked Madame Keitel for a memory of pure, unbridled greed. He was especially interested in the last moments of one who recognized far too late that avarice had destroyed their life. He also said that it would be 'fun' to experience working in an established criminal organization." The archivist, who must have guessed by now that I worked in a criminal organization that was too established for his liking, carefully avoided my eyes.

I let it slide. He was welcome to his qualms, as long as he kept reporting to me. "How about Mistress Karstas? What memory did she seek?"

The archivist shook his head. "Nothing. She said that the first time can be overwhelming so she wanted to sit with her friend to make sure he was safe." His last words lifted questioningly, as if he couldn't quite grasp Faith's altruism. "Madame Keitel took them both to the Green Salon."

"So what did she give Mistress Karstas's friend?" I was curious whether Ash had been looking specifically for Vhetin Kellis's last moments.

Soberly, the archivist answered, "A tragic case, miss. It was a merchant who dealt in legitimate import-export business between Akoros and Iruvia. He was born in Charhollow, but he got a job on the Docks and worked his way up by backstabbing colleagues until he saved enough to start his own business. Then he used skullduggery to forge connections with the elite and grew fabulously wealthy off them. He even bought a mansion in Whitecrown and married a trophy wife, but his home life was just miserable. His family hated him, you see. His final business venture was a plan to betray a leviathan hunter family and take over their ship, but before he could achieve that, he got incurably ill and died wishing that he'd spent more time with his children." He sighed wistfully, as if wishing _he_ could spend more time with his children.

"That _is_ depressing," I agreed softly, thinking about my own family. After a moment, I asked, "What was the friend's reaction to this memory?"

The archivist shook off his mood and snapped back to attention. "He's as creepy as Mistress Karstas, miss. As soon as he woke, he asked her what she'd do with a leviathan hunter."

That did sound like Ash.

"What did she say?" I honestly couldn't see Faith wanting a leviathan hunter, unless it was to paint the whole thing pink.

"She asked, 'What _would_ I do with one? I'd prefer piracy.' Her friend went all dreamy then, started talking about how it would be a good starting point, he'd do one or two hunts and then sell the ship."

Ash did seem dreamier than usual the next time he dropped in. He even peppered Bazso with questions about the _Night Breaker_ and _Storm Palace_ and their technical specifications, until Bazso pointed out that the Lampblacks dealt more with the cargo that came off ships than the ships themselves. Then Ash wandered off, still mumbling to himself about crew complements.

* * *

All along, Mistress Slane had been sending us updates about Tess's infiltration of the Hive, and Tess herself had already funneled five coin our way, but to Ash, that still wasn't enough cash flow. As soon as Sawbones reluctantly concurred that I probably wouldn't split my wounds and bleed to death in the street – and if I did, Bazso certainly couldn't hold him accountable – Ash dragged Faith and me to Brightstone to launch a new business venture.

"Have I told you how much I hate Helene?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes," I muttered, grimly hobbling around a pothole. It was a little hard to limp when both of your legs hurt equally.

At the same time, Faith answered, "Why, no, never! Who is this Helene?"

Ash, naturally, trusted my answer. "Good. Well, I certainly hope Brannon Keel shares this hatred. That might make him more inclined to accept our business proposition."

"I'm sure he doesn't!" objected Faith, dropping her pretense of amnesia. "I've found that people tend to _love_ the creditors who can sell them into debt slavery!"

As usual, Ash ignored her and proclaimed loftily, "I intend to _ruin_ her. Hopefully, we can even take this opportunity to broaden the definition of 'ruin.'" Glancing at the crew's Whisper, he added, "By the way, we're not expecting ghosts from our targets, right?"

She put a manicured finger prettily to her cheek while she thought. "You never know. They can come from any direction…."

"I'll take that as a yes," said Ash.

Although the Keels lived in a less nice part of Brightstone, the dignified old family butler still showed us into a tidy (albeit threadbare) parlor where tea had already been set. Wearing a rumpled suit from last season, a rather perplexed Brannon welcomed us, giving us curious looks the whole time.

"I understand that you want to discuss a business venture?" he asked tentatively.

Ash immediately replied, "Yes, we're very impressed by your business situation."

The naïve young lord looked taken aback. "And you're _impressed_?"

Smoothly, Ash explained, "We've investigated your situation and identified certain…irregularities." He paused for a moment to let that sink in before continuing, "The establishment responsible for these irregularities would certainly benefit from a change in management, perhaps even ownership. All relevant deaths would be replaced, of course," he finished casually.

Brannon's lips moved silently as he tried to keep up.

"We have business dealings with Irimina Kinclaith," Ash hinted heavily. "If you discuss the matter with her, she might be willing to fund a change of ownership. If so, we can take care of the details."

Brannon's jaw dropped when he finally grasped our meaning. "You mean – you're going to – but Helene – "

"You have a most keen financial acumen," Ash flattered him. "All the red ink against you can turn to black if you just take over the institution to which you're currently in debt."

Brannon squeaked incredulously, "You want _me_ to take over the _casino_?"

"Well, there's no reason to set our sights low," Ash reproved, like a schoolmaster disappointed by his prize pupil's slowness. He glanced at me and hand-signed, "Some help here?"

Gesturing with my hands like an orator, I spewed out a rousing pep talk about rising to the occasion, making sure to pepper my sentences with classical allusions and literary quotations. Brannon nodded along, looking increasingly confident, and at the end, he threw back his shoulders, puffed out his chest like a conquering general, and declared, "Well, I have nothing to lose."

Then he deflated again. "Unless, of course, Helene comes after me."

With only the slightest hint of exasperation, Ash suggested that Helene would be removed, saying things like "She will not be your concern" and "Businessmen approach problems from all angles" until realization finally began to dawn on Brannon's face.

"Do talk it over with Lady Irimina," I urged. "She will explain how it works."

Looking a little shell-shocked, he assured us that he would.

As we left Keel mansion after that potentially profitable business tea, Ash pronounced with satisfaction, "Helene will never see it coming. Although it would be nice if she knew at the end…."

I shook my head firmly. "Better if she doesn't, in the interest of keeping a low profile," I reminded him.

Faith, who'd been uncharacteristically quiet and preoccupied throughout the meeting, abruptly announced, "Well, this has been a delightful outing, but now I simply must abandon the two of you."

"Oh?" I asked. "Where are you going?"

"Why, to visit my dressmaker of course! I have a fitting – oh, Isha, you have no idea just how many fittings it takes to get a dress to fit perfectly." She frowned at me. "Although, honestly, the least you can do is accompany me, since I sacrificed my best dress to save your life."

Without waiting for a response, she flounced away down the street, heading in a direction that might just as well have led back to Coalridge as to Nightmarket. For a moment I considered tailing her, but gave up when my boot caught on the edge of a cobblestone and I tripped and nearly knocked Ash over. I'd just have to wait for my informants to report.

* * *

Faith's true mission was revealed a few days later when Bazso interrupted one of our nightly conferences to show in a Lost runner, a teenaged girl who was still out of breath from her jog.

As soon as she caught her breath, she rattled off her message: "Cortland said to tell you that Tarvul gave the order to Chime who went to the Bluecoats and told them to investigate Kamilin's death and it was okay if they used drastic measures."

It took me a moment to parse all of that.

"Ah, thank you, beautiful!" Regally, Faith bestowed a tip upon the girl and dismissed her. Then she lounged back in her chair, stretched luxuriously, and told us, "Oooh, I had the nicest chat with Cortland the other day. He said Tarvul was the one who hired Kamilin. You see, he still runs things from prison through his right-hand man, Chime."

"You're investigating who betrayed Madame Keitel to the Bluecoats?" I blurted out before I remembered that I wasn't supposed to know about Madame Keitel's injuries or Faith's side project.

Faith looked entirely unsurprised that I'd been tracking her activities. Instead, she yawned widely. "Ooooh, no, that sounds like work! I merely suggested to Cortland that I would be most appreciative if he looked into it, and the Billhooks would be most unappreciative, and he did!"

I had an idea of where this was going. "Are you suggesting that we target Chime next?"


	18. Client Solicitation

"Target Chime!" Faith shot out of her chair and struck a dramatic pose in the middle of the room. Clasping both hands to her breast like one of those actresses in _A Requiem for Aldric_, she raised her eyes heavenward and declaimed, "I am aghast by the implication! I would _never_ do such a thing to my dear friend."

Bazso could almost certainly hear her in his study. In fact, half of Crow's Foot could probably hear her.

"Keep your voice down!" I hissed.

"Why?" she pouted, flopping back down and crossing her arms across her ruffled bosom. "I just said that we're not targeting anyone. Honestly, Isha, I don't know how you do things in Iruvia, but in Doskvol, not targeting someone isn't a crime."

In U'Duasha, sometimes not targeting someone _was_ a crime – against yourself, at any rate. Scores of the Patriarch's relatives had spent their last moments wishing they'd strangled him in the cradle.

Perhaps my expression convinced Faith that I meant business, because she twirled one end of her shimmery satin sash, lowered her voice a notch, and explained, "I merely think that Chime would have a better time in jail accused of some of the crimes we've committed! Like playing dress-up outside that brothel, or inaugurating the festivities at Spiregarden Theater. If we invite him back to our railcar and host him for a couple days, I'm sure we can convince him to confess to _something_."

Ash spoke up at last. "Well, I'm not sure how we'll get paid for this one, but it's always good to get onto the safer side of the law," he pronounced. "And since we already set up this delightful treasure hunt for the Bluecoats – "

" – Might as well have it lead somewhere?" I finished drily.

"Exactly!" he beamed.

Apparently Ash's preoccupation with crew finances was rubbing off on Faith, because she sank into a brief reverie, then bounced up and down with excitement. "Oh! I have an idea! I have a friend at the Docks!"

Her level of enthusiasm was wearing me out. Leaning back against my pillow and closing my eyes, I let Ash deal with her idea.

He didn't disappoint. "Another 'dear friend' like Chime?" he asked cautiously.

"Oh, no, not at all! This friend can be our client, or at least connect us to one. Her name is Nyryx – "

That wasn't a very common name at all. In fact, I only knew one Nyryx. Incredulously, I began, "You think that Tycherosi prosti– "

"Don't use that term, Isha!" Faith gasped, scandalized. "It sounds so vulgar, so unbecoming for a lady such as myself to hear. What I think you meant to say was 'that Tycherosi lady of marketable affections.' And the answer is yes."

I hadn't actually asked anything yet.

"I know Nyryx," Ash put in. "But I fail to see what a, um, lady such as herself has to do with the operations of people such as ourselves. Unless she harbors personal enmity for Chime? I find it hard to believe that she can afford our fee, though."

Like a child just bursting to share a particularly exciting pebble with her parents, Faith gleefully looked from one of us to the other. "Oh, Ash, Isha, didn't you know? Nyryx is one of the Reconciled."

Simultaneously, Ash and I exclaimed, "_What_?"

The Reconciled were a select group of spirits who had found – or at least claimed to have found – a way to retain their sanity after death. Naturally, they preferred to have a physical embodiment and often possessed living humans, including (it was rumored, although by whom I had no idea because the Reconciled themselves certainly weren't talking, and neither were the allegedly possessed humans) members of the City Council itself.

Our shock satisfied Faith enough for her to continue. "Yes. So you see, while _we_ have no need of Chime, I'm sure Nyryx can make good use of him. We should ask her."

I must have made a gulping noise – the Tycherosi were bad enough, but a part-demon possessed by an ancient ghost that might or might not be deranged?

Faith winked at me. "You don't need come, Isha. I understand. It's too embarrassing for someone as noble as yourself to be seen in the company of a lady of negotiable affections."

* * *

Of course I shadowed them to their meeting anyway.

North to the Docks they went, straight to the back of the Menagerie, where Captain Rye was haggling loudly with a group of sailors over the latest monstrosity they'd picked – or, more likely, fished – up during their travels. A splotchy dark creature resembling a cross between a hog and an octopus pressed its gelatinous snout against the bars of its rusty cage and snorted loudly at passersby, some of whom pointed and laughed, others of whom brushed by as if they hadn't even noticed.

Poised artistically beside an empty pen, dressed in a gaudy, tasteless approximation of an Iruvian kaftan, Nyryx spotted Ash and Faith and beckoned to them with a lewd gesture. The trio vanished around the corner into a dark alley as if they were about to get down to business.

Which they were, after a fashion.

Creeping as close as I dared and hiding behind a stack of water tanks, I strained to catch their conversation.

Faith was saying animatedly, "We're about to come into possession of a person who will unfortunately have been recently – "

To my frustration, a gang of sailors swaggered by, bellowing out sea shanties.

When they finally passed, Nyryx's husky, suggestive voice was finally audible. "For as many bodies as you can procure, I can find buyers."

Faith teased, "We'll start with the most deserving – I mean, the most _unfortunate_."

Intriguingly, Nyryx replied, "I've known you for a long time, Faith…." In a more business-like tone, she asked, "What can you tell me about the body?"

"For starters, it's a Billhook," Ash specified.

"That's good to know," the Reconciled agreed. "Are there any scars? What does it look like?"

"Well," drawled Faith, "he's cute in a rugged sort of way…. Oh, by the way, in addition to the upfront cost of the body, we'll need it to spend a month in jail. The new and reformed Chime will suffer an attack of conscience and turn himself in for the terrible, _terrible_ crimes he's committed."

There was a silence, probably as Nyryx ran through a mental roster of potential buyers. "Yes," she said at last. "I will arrange something."

While she and Ash turned to bargaining, I limped back to Crow's Foot. If we were going to target Chime, we needed to learn everything we could about the man.

* * *

Recruiting informants to spy on Faith's "dear friend" proved surprisingly difficult.

I tried first, with the orphans from Strathmill House. A flock of them always hung around the back of the Red Sash Sword Academy, hoping for the chance to run an errand and make a few coppers. "You know that Billhook, Chime?" I asked, waggling my purse at them. All of them nodded, and a couple of the bolder (and dumber) ones inched closer, eyes glued to the purse as if gauging whether they could snatch it. Turning casually so they could see Grandfather's hilt, I told them, "I need someone quick and daring to follow him and report all his actions."

"_Chime_?" cried one orphan, aghast.

Eyes huge as saucers, already edging away from me, another whispered, "Oh no, miss, we like our fingers!"

Like pigeons before a street dog, the orphans all fled.

* * *

Ash tried next, with a Crow who was lounging outside one of Bazso's drug dens.

"I have a job for you," he announced. "Three coppers a day, but the price is negotiable."

"Talk," rumbled the scoundrel, a bear of a man whose arms and neck were encrusted with tattoos. "I'm listenin'."

"You will follow Chime and – "

"Chime, as in Billhook Chime?" the man interrupted.

"Yes, as in Tarvul's-right-hand-man Chime," Ash specified. "Now, I'm interested in – "

"Naw, thanks, man. I like my ears."

And the big man wandered off, vanishing into the warren of alleys near the Crow's Nest.

* * *

In the end, I wound up doing my own spying. It even saved the crew a slug or two, a point Ash noted with great satisfaction.

Decked out in foul-smelling rags (and shadowed by Lampblacks who stayed upwind), I hobbled to the Billhooks' cover operation in the northeastern part of Crow's Foot, a butcher shop just three streets away from the Leaky Bucket. Although I'd sometimes wondered why Bazso didn't just run the psychopaths out of the district, now I had to admit that their proximity was convenient.

Also surprisingly handy for my operation was that mangy, three-legged stray from the Old Rail Yard, which had followed Faith and Ash all the way from Coalridge and started hanging around Bazso's townhouse. It had ingratiated itself with the Lampblack runners – even Bug – and wagged its tail hopefully every time it saw me. Now it hopped along after me, cocked its head, and eyed me curiously when I huddled down in a shivering lump across from the butcher shop. When I set out a cracked bowl, the mutt promptly sat down in a begging position, and almost immediately, a passerby tossed me a copper "to buy a bone for the nice doggie."

Over the course of a week, the two of us kept a sharp eye on Chime's comings and goings and even made the equivalent of a slug – which I promptly spent on fancy bath salts. Not too shabby.

* * *

"So, what do you have for us?" Ash asked. "Does Chime keep any kind of schedule?"

Thoroughly scrubbed and clean, I reported, "Chime oversees the Billhooks' business of extorting shopkeepers in Coalridge, mostly under the pretext of supervising meat deliveries. He also inspects the animal fighting pits that they own in the Docks, while pretending to gamble on matches." Before Ash could inquire, I added, "You can imagine that no one would dream of claiming any winnings from him."

Ash, perhaps dreaming of the Silver Stag Casino, nodded knowingly.

"Ugh. That's so _boring_," complained Faith. "Chime's practically a model citizen!"

"Does he have any vices we can prey on?" asked Ash hopefully.

"Well, I'm not sure this counts as a _vice_, but every other day, he goes to Strathmill Park – you know, that little park between the Sword Academy and Strathmill House – and he feeds pigeons."

"_Chime_ feeds _pigeons_?" Ash looked aghast. "Does he mix them into the meat they sell?"

"Ash!" reproved Faith. "Don't be so cynical! Maybe Chime just likes feeding the little birdies."

And maybe Faith ripped out our targets' souls and stored them in ghost bottles while she searched for _better_ bodies for them, but I doubted it.

"No," I replied flatly. "No, he really doesn't. Every other day, he intercepts one of a rotating group of pigeons and removes a message from its leg. I'm pretty sure they're instructions from Tarvul, but I haven't found a way to confirm this yet. We _could_ attack him while he's feeding the pigeons. That may be when he's most distracted."

"Oh! Oh! Yes!" Faith agreed enthusiastically. "And then we can drag him to the Sword Academy and wage spectacular single combat through the halls while the students look on in open-mouthed wonderment! Imagine how dramatic that would be!"

Almost as dramatic as Mylera's apoplectic fit. "The headmistress would be upset if we broke anything," I reminded her primly, in the understatement of the millennium.

Faith sighed and pouted. "You're no fun. And neither is Mylera."

Ash suggested, "Well, how about this? We have someone steal something from Chime and then run into the Sword Academy. We can ambush him on the grounds and stay out of the building." Almost immediately, he dismissed his own idea. "The problem is that he knows it belongs to the Red Sashes. No matter how hotheaded he is, he's too smart to run into another gang's headquarters."

"You might have something there," I said, getting excited. "We can hire one of the orphans to pickpocket him and run back into the _orphanage_. Then we ambush him _there_, off the street and out of sight of the Bluecoats! I'll bet we can even get Mylera to lend us a few Red Sashes." After all, what self-respecting gang leader would want another gang's leader loitering outside her own headquarters?

* * *

Mylera, as it turned out, was torn. On the one hand, she really didn't like the Billhooks and their grisly habit of strewing expertly butchered corpses all over their turf. But on the other hand, she really didn't want to set a precedent by interfering too blatantly with one of their leaders in what was, after all, a public park.

"It's not like they're using it for a meeting place, Glass," she pointed out, tracing the handle of her coffee cup. "It's only one of them – and he's feeding pigeons, of all things. That's the most innocuous thing I've heard of a Billhook doing! I'm honestly not sure I should discourage it."

Waving my own (empty) coffee cup, I reminded her forcefully, "It's _not_ innocuous, though. It's a cover operation for Chime to receive instructions from Tarvul. Do you really want people to accuse the Red Sashes of condoning Billhook activity right outside our headquarters? It seems…disrespectful, to say the least."

Absently, Mylera refilled my cup and gazed at her statue of She Who Slays in Darkness while she thought. At last, she decided, "No, you're right, Glass. I don't want them passing secret correspondence on my own doorstep. What resources do you need for this street-sweeping operation?"

"Just a few extra pairs of hands and eyes. Er." Bad phrasing, given who was under discussion. "Not literally, of course. Three reliable scoundrels would be enough."

Apparently I could have requested more aid, because Mylera agreed without even blinking.

The wary little orphans were harder to convince, but eventually we managed to hire two for a handful of slugs.


	19. Chime

Strathmill Park wasn't a bad place to hang out (for Crow's Foot). You might even call it an idyllic country escape within the city – if you blinded yourself to the dead trees and decayed benches, and focused instead on the elderly gentlemen playing chess or the young couples strolling hand in hand along the canal that separated us from Charterhall. From my station just inside the side gate of the Sword Academy, I could even make out the gleaming dome of the Sensorium in the distance through a web of skeletal branches.

Scanning the park, I double- and triple-checked that all our pieces were in place. Seated inside the derelict gazebo, Faith folded her hands demurely in her lap, the very picture of a proper young maiden awaiting her suitor. Meanwhile, Ash lounged on a bench near Chime's usual seat, seemingly engrossed in the _Dockside Telegraph_'s latest headlines and oblivious to the ragged urchins playing a game of marbles nearby. Around the outskirts of the park swaggered three of Mylera's Cutters, their red silk sashes gleaming under the streetlights, their hard stares suggesting to the citizenry of Crow's Foot that there might be better times to enjoy this particular taxpayer-funded public space.

Right on schedule, Chime strutted into the park, sprawled in the center of his bench, spread his legs to occupy the maximal amount of space, and fished a stale roll out of one greasy pocket. Pulverizing the bread, he flung a handful of crumbs onto the ground in front of him. When the pigeons flocked to them, he took aim with the larger pieces, smirking every time he hit a target. Although the birds bobbed and squawked indignantly, they quickly settled back down to peck at the crumbs.

Casually, Ash raised his newspaper.

One orphan promptly knocked the other's marble under a shrub; with a yelp, the child dove after it.

A single pigeon with a slip of paper trailing from its leg landed next to Chime. Throwing another handful of bread crumbs at the other birds, he seized it, undid the message, and tossed the pigeon back into the air. With a flutter of feathers, it soared up and vanished into the distance, heading due south in the direction of Ironhook Prison. While Chime read Tarvul's latest instructions, I surveyed our surroundings one last time, met Ash's eyes, and nodded once.

I didn't catch his signal, but the first orphan tucked his marbles into his pocket, tiptoed up to Chime's bench – and then darted forward, grabbing at the Billhook's pocket watch.

Quick as a flash, Chime seized the little boy's wrist with his free hand. "Here, you!" he snarled. Crumpling the note and shoving it into his pocket, he dragged the boy forward.

The orphan promptly began to wail. "Please, sir, I din't mean nuthin'! I'll never do it again!" He struggled desperately, but Chime merely held him at arm's length, flicked out a Bowie knife, and angled it so the streetlights showed all the dark stains on the blade.

My red sash streaming out behind me, I dashed across the park and ordered imperiously, "Let go of the child!"

"He was stealing from me," Chime growled, tightening his grip and forcing the child's hand out as if preparing to hack it off.

The little boy screamed and fought, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw his fingers creep towards the latch on a bracelet that Ash had given him.

"You can't mutilate children in the middle of a park. That's not how we do things here in Crow's Foot. Hand him over," I commanded, blatantly ignoring the fact that here in Crow's Foot, gangs mutilated children who got in the way all the time. When Chime made no movement to release the orphan, I drew myself up and twirled my sash casually, reminding him whose doorstep he was on. "Come, man. We'll take him to Strathmill House and sort things out."

Even though the residents of Crow's Foot had carefully cultivated a lack of curiosity, Faith swung into action. Reaching into the ghost field, she daintily drew out the shimmering outlines of spirits and traced them next to the chess players and lovers. The ethereal outlines flickered just out of their lines of sight but atavistic instinct made them uneasy, and one by one the old folks packed up their chess pieces and the lovers strolled off in search of a café.

From one of the Red Sashes came a birdcall – moments before a Bluecoat patrol ambled around the corner, still hooting over a crude joke. When they caught sight of Chime, they immediately stiffened, puffed out their chests, and headed over to see what the urchin had done to their friend.

Ash launched our backup plan. Dropping his newspaper, he leaped up and began patting himself all over frantically. "What! What! They must have taken it! Those orphans again!" he screamed.

The second orphan crashed out of the shrub and streaked off across the park towards the orphanage with Ash in hot pursuit.

"Here, you!" bellowed the Bluecoats, changing directions and chasing after them. "Boy! Come back here this instant!"

All four of them vanished into Strathmill House.

The three Red Sashes and I converged on Chime.

Faith quickly hand-signed the orphan to use the bracelet – in a flash, the child flipped the latch, sprayed trance powder straight into his captor's eyes and nose, wrenched free, and pelted out of the park.

Chime roared once and flailed wildly, clawing at his face, but within half a minute, his motions slowed and grew uncoordinated, and his eyes unfocused. Deep in a pleasant, hypnotic trance and mumbling happily to himself, he started stumbling away from the bench – right towards our tripwire.

Unfortunately, he noticed just before he blundered into it and gave a yelp of surprise.

Across the park, the Bluecoats were heading back out of the orphanage, shaking their heads while Ash gesticulated and blathered about the dangerous rise in juvenile delinquency. As soon as Chime cried out, Ash went back into a frenzy.

"What! What! They took that too! I can't believe it! They must have done it while we in the orphanage!"

"What else did he take, sir?" inquired one of the Bluecoats in a weary voice.

"Oh, I don't know, one or two bracelets maybe. It's so hard to tell when you wear all this jewelry!"

The poor Bluecoats exchanged harassed glances, trying to signal to each other that they needed to get this lunatic gentleman across the bridge into Charterhall before he died of terminal idiocy in Crow's Foot.

"Might I suggest Jayan Park, sir?" one proposed tentatively. "I hear it's very nice. It's just across the canal…."

While they were busy calming Ash down and herding him towards the bridge, I jumped forward and struck Chime on the back of head, knocking him out. He collapsed with a thud at our feet.

One Red Sash glanced up sharply and warned, "Incoming."

With all three of the thugs occupied in the park, citizens were drifting back in our direction, newspapers and chess sets in hand. Hastily, we rolled Chime over, tied a red sash around his waist, and stripped off everything that might identify him as a Billhook. One of the Red Sashes dashed to the canal and hurled it all into the water, while another rushed into the Sword Academy for a stretcher. As we loaded the unconscious Chime onto it, I upbraided him and the third Red Sash for holding an unauthorized duel in the park.

"The academy has strict rules regarding matches!" I raged. "Each and every one of you signed a pledge to uphold them! You and you – you're going straight to the headmistress!"

The thug I was berating shot me a glare, as if warning me not to get carried away. In a sullen tone he didn't even have to feign, he muttered, "Sorry, Mistress Glass. We won't do it again."

"You won't have a chance to!"

In a nice counterpoint, Ash was haranguing our orphan on how adversity was no excuse for petty theft, and how he must learn to transcend socioeconomic disadvantages – how? Oh, with the aid of this purse, of course. And Ash shoved the agreed-upon slugs into the child's hands while the Bluecoats looked on in utter bemusement.

With a chipper smile, Faith flittered out of the gazebo and attached herself to us, greeting the Red Sashes as if she were a fellow student.

Safely inside the academy, we stuffed Chime into a chest, waited for Ash to get rid of the Bluecoats, and caught a cab back to the Old Rail Yard.

* * *

Faith was all ready for our guest. Don't ask me where she found the requisite accessories, but she'd transformed one of the empty compartments into a Bluecoat interrogation chamber and even procured a full uniform, which she changed into as soon as we returned. (The sight of her in _trousers_ might have been the most bizarre part of the day thus far.) She directed Ash and me to leave the chest in the compartment, then firmly shut the door in our faces.

We could have forced the issue, but neither of us particularly cared to.

Especially when the screaming started.

Accompanied by cheerful remarks such as, "Let me just consult the list of injuries…. Ah, yes, I think _this_ rib on your left side needs to be cracked…yes, just _so_…. After all, this _is_ what you did to Madame Keitel, is it not? I wouldn't want to be remiss in my attentions!"

Very quickly, Ash and I decided that the wisest course of action was for us to sit outside the railcar, feed the mutt, and head off any passersby (although, honestly, anyone who might pass by the Old Rail Yard also knew to mind their own business, especially during an ongoing interrogation).

After several hours, the shrieking finally subsided into low moaning, and I poked my head back inside to see Faith towing an unresisting Chime by the feet into the hallway. A large, blue-black bruise darkened the right side of his face, and one arm flopped like a cooked noodle. "Hey, there!" she greeted me merrily. "Say 'hi,' Chime, there's a good boy!"

The Billhook emitted a cross between a grunt and a groan that might have been an attempt at a "hi."

"Good boy," proclaimed Faith with satisfaction. "Do you mind getting the door?" she asked me.

I slid open the door to her compartment, taking the opportunity to scan it. The room looked much as it had when I first moved in, albeit minus the bouquet of flowers she'd left for me, and plus an assortment of empty crystalline bottles arranged tidily on her desk like antique vases. In front of them lay a silver tray with a tea set and platter of scones. Next to the beribboned chair sat a locked wooden chest that I'd seen under her bed but hadn't had a chance to search yet.

Chime's head bumped across the threshold.

"Give me a hand, please?" Faith asked, still in that terrifyingly perky voice.

She dragged Chime into the middle of the room and dropped his feet. His boots hit the thin carpet with a dull thud, and he simply lay there, whimpering softly, while she circled around, grabbed the un-noodly arm, and tugged on it.

Reluctantly, I entered the compartment. "Where do you want him?"

"Right there, on the chair! I have it all ready for him!"

Together, we seized his shoulders and hauled him up until he slumped limply in the chair, head lolling on his chest.

"Thank you, Isha! You're the best!"

At the use of my (fake) real name, I looked at her sharply.

Faith beamed back at me. "Now, if you don't mind, Chime and I are going to have a lovely chat over tea and scones!" Plopping herself down sideways in the Billhook's lap, she slung one arm around his neck and leaned in close. "Aren't we, now?" she asked him in a confiding way. Without looking up, she sang, "Oh, Isha, are you still here? Bye-bye!"

Bye-bye indeed. Skin crawling, I scurried out of the railcar and slammed the door behind me.

"I guess she isn't done yet," Ash observed, glancing up from petting the mutt. It had flopped onto its back and was writhing in the dirt, matted fur vacuuming up all sorts of weeds and gravel as it luxuriated in its tummy rub.

"No, no," I babbled, trying to gouge the image of that tea set out of my mind. "Not yet. You know, if this dog is going to keep hanging around, we should really name him. How about – how about Sleipnir?"

"Sleipnir?" asked Ash, frowning a little. "Is that an Iruvian name?"

"No, Skovlander, actually. It's a mythological horse with eight legs."

Quite sensibly, he pointed out, "Unless I'm counting wrong, this dog only has three."

Although I was tensed to hear screaming at any moment, the railcar remained eerily quiet.

"Yes, exactly," I prattled on, straining to fill that silence. "We can call him Sleipnir because he has the wrong number of legs."

Giving me a slightly odd look, Ash acquiesced. "Yes. Sleipnir. That is acceptable."

* * *

The next morning, the two of us were nodding over mugs of what the hawker claimed was coffee (but was more likely canal water dyed brown) when Chime stumbled into the common area. Escorted by a slightly disheveled but beaming Faith, he lurched along like a marionette missing half its strings.

He halted when he saw us. His arms dangled limply. His head slowly rotated on his neck. His lips moved.

An incongruously alert voice issued from his throat: "If you will excuse me, mesdames et monsieur, I have some crimes to confess to." Opening the outer door for him, Faith bowed like a butler.

Through one of the windows, I watched as the now-possessed Chime trundled off towards Nightmarket and its Bluecoat station.


	20. Heat Reduction (and Addition)

"Well," remarked Ash, downing the dregs of his "coffee" and setting his mug on the table with great precision, "that should take care of the heat from the Dillingham and Spiregarden business. Isha, what do you say that we muddy the waters, so to speak, with regard to the Chime score?"

Raising my own mug of muddy water, I toasted him. "Cheers."

"Faith, are you in?"

She yawned hugely and stretched like a big pink cat. "Oooooh, no, I wouldn't _dream_ of muddying anything. Have fun, dears! _I'll_ pay a visit to the lovely Lady Irimina. After all, we haven't called on her in so long. We wouldn't want her to believe that we've heartlessly abandoned her, would we?"

"I don't think there's any danger of that, especially not when Brannon consults her about Helene," I pointed out.

"But it just isn't the same, Isha! In our line of work, it's all about that personal touch!"

True, you didn't exactly get more personal than commissioning – or soliciting – assassinations. I sighed, eyed my mug of what probably wasn't coffee, and gulped it down anyway. "Fine. Ash and I will deal with the crew's heat. Give our regards to Irimina." I managed to make it sound as if I believed that she was heartlessly abandoning her duties.

Faith, naturally, interpreted it literally. "Oh, I will!" she assured me. "She will be heartbroken not to see you, but I will do my best to assuage her pain!"

Leaving her to primp, the very-much-not-heartbroken Ash and I headed for nearby Brickston, one of the less savory neighborhoods of Coalridge, where sagging flophouses and ramshackle rowhouses practically toppled onto one another, and broken-down carts, laundry lines, and dirty children clogged the cramped alleys. Stopping in at the Blind Cat tavern, we ordered an early lunch of tasteless algae soup and chatted with whatever ne'er-do-wells frequented the place in the middle of a workday. It was, as far as I could tell, an unsurprising mix of unemployed factory hands fleeing their wives' reproachful faces, would-be union agitators trying to fulfill Belle Brogan's recruiting quotas, and hopeful young thugs flirting with the idea of joining Cortland or Ulf Ironborn or whoever would have them.

Shaking his head over his soup, Ash clucked, "Can you believe what I heard the other day? There were idiots wandering around a park in Crow's Foot with golden handbags! Can you imagine?"

"Golden handbags?" yelped a thug, spinning around from showing off her newest tattoo to one of the Lost.

"Yes. It was ridiculous," I sneered. If I focused on the algae bits floating in my bowl, I didn't even need to feign disgust.

"What _happened_ to them?" asked a second thug, banging his tankard of ale onto the table and thumping down next to us.

Ash shrugged very expressively. "What do you _think_ happened?"

A thug practically carpeted in Skovlander mythological tattoos (no Sleipnir though – I checked) took interest and ambled over. "Five slugs the idiots got mugged," he rumbled at the other two. They shook their heads, declining the wager. "Prob'ly killed too."

Ash threw up his hands. "It's a dangerous place!" he exclaimed in frustration. "Of _course_ dangerous things happen there. I mean, what was this guy even doing in Crow's Foot? _I _would never be seen there."

"Yeah," called the bartender from across the room. "You're just taking your life in your hands if you wander around Crow's Foot alone."

Her assessment prompted a round of knowing nods and grunts of assent.

Having muddied the waters to our satisfaction, Ash and I finished our "lunch," paid the tab, and headed back into the filthy air. As he strode along (and I tried not to scurry to keep up), he abruptly demanded, "Why was it so shocking that Bazso and I know each other?"

That was not a topic I wanted to discuss.

Espionage was my birthright. (The Patriarch's voice, creaky with age and drenched with malice, ringing through the Great Hall: "The very survival of Iruvia depends on our House. Those who fail to gather adequate intelligence fail at our raison d'être" – his justification for refusing to reign in intra-House warfare even after it wiped out Cousin D'ruva's branch. I'd _liked_ Cousin D'ruva.) And now, somehow, two of the people closest to me knew each other intimately, had known each other intimately for years, and I'd never even suspected it. (Mother's voice, echoing from an isle away: "Remember that those you trust most can hurt you worst.")

Ash was still waiting for my response.

Why did it shock me that I'd missed their connection? "Because knowing things is my business," I replied at last, more vehemently than I'd intended.

Because I'd failed spectacularly and publicly, in front of both Sawbones and Faith, no less.

Because here was the ultimate proof that the man who was the closest thing I had to a real friend in this cursed city trusted me about as much as I trusted Grandfather.

Trust.

My voice rose uncontrollably, the words just spilling out. "So if I didn't know, then both of you were deliberately keeping it secret. From _me_."

Ash promptly reprimanded me. "Most of our clients prefer that their personal affairs not be broadcast to the general public." That was even worse: When had Bazso ever known me to broadcast anything to anyone? "We – or rather, my mother – provides good service, and part of that includes discretion."

Lacking a good comeback ("But you should have told _me_" sounding too petulant), I stalked along in sullen silence.

A few twists and turns later, Ash broke it again with a question I wanted to answer even less: "So what's going on with you and the Red Sashes?"

"What do you mean?" I ducked under a clothesline before it could slice off my head and swiped unnecessarily at a dripping sheet, buying myself extra time.

"Well, are you playing the gangs against each other? Whose side are you on – so I know whose side I should be on?"

So much for loyalty to his mother's clients. "Mine," I replied flatly.

"Hmmmm." He apparently decided not to pry further for the time being. "I might do business with the gangs," he said after a moment.

May all the forgotten gods save me from meddling, avaricious friends. "Don't stir up trouble between them," I warned without looking back at him.

"Not without telling you first," he promised.

And unless I wanted to confess my real plan, I had to be content with that.

* * *

At least Ash let me accompany him around Charterhall while he invested in Skovlander ventures that would profit from Doskvolian volatility in the event of an Akorosian-Iruvian conflict. On the legal documents, I caught a glimpse of scribbles that might have resolved into "That Which Hungers" and deduced that he was purchasing futures in the name of his god. (I honestly wasn't sure how I felt about that, especially since we'd never managed to retrieve General Helker's battle plans and no matter what I thought about certain parts of my House, I still didn't want my family massacred.) Back in the railcar, Ash commandeered the common room table, spread out all the documents he'd received from the bankers, and calculated the return on investment for each of the futures he'd purchased. By the time he finished and put away everything tidily in his room, it was already sunset and the shattered sun was throbbing like a migraine on the horizon.

"I might be out late," Ash told me. "Don't wait for me for supper."

Although he didn't invite me to tag along to the Temple to the Forgotten Gods, I would have been extremely surprised if he hadn't figured out by now that I was tailing him there.

This time, we found Ilacille lighting a sconce shaped like a sunburst on the altar of the Unbroken Sun. (Personally, I didn't think that god was forgotten so much as dead.)

"Good evening, Ilacille!" Ash called out eagerly from across the sanctum.

Looking up from the candles, she replied with one of those serene, priestly expressions, "Good evening, Ash. Did you have more theological questions for me?"

"Well, sort of," he answered, winding his way past all the little shrines and altars to join her. "I was curious about the connection between demons and gods."

So was I, now that he mentioned it. Crouched behind the altar of The Thousand Faces, I listened as hard as I could.

Ilacille almost chuckled at Ash's naivete. "There is none," she answered flatly. "They're entirely separate. A demon has its own agenda, and a god would never trust one."

What good taste the gods had! Maybe that was why they were gods.

The priestess gestured at the graceful, tapering white candles in the sconce. "The Unbroken Sun is dedicated to eradicating all demonkind." Well, there was a cause I supported. With an air of finality, she proclaimed, "A god would never work with a demon."

Although Ash's back was to me, I could hear the surprise in his voice. "Not even That Which Hungers? It's very practical."

Frowning in thought, Ilacille mentally cycled through her index of the deities. Then she shook her head definitively. "I've never seen anything to suggest it."

"Hmmmm." Giving up on whatever lucrative venture he'd considered, Ash turned to a different line of questioning. "What would one have to do to see a god manifest?"

Ilacille looked at him a little sharply. "You would need to enhance its following," she replied automatically. "Ash, are you sure – "

"It's purely hypothetical," he assured her quickly.

She frowned even more deeply but let it drop.

While she processed among the shrines, spending the exact same amount of time at each one (I timed her), Ash crossed the room to the altar of That Which Hungers, where he prayed fervently for guidance on directing the destructive forces of capitalism against the Imperium itself. At the end, a look of intense, almost inhuman hunger flashed across his face.

I took that as my cue to slip away.

* * *

Meanwhile, according to one of the Kinclaith maids, Faith had been pumping Irimina for details on an immortality ritual over tea and scones.

"What would you _do_ if you were immortal?" Faith inquired, fascinated.

Looking startled, as if it weren't a question she had to answer very often, Irimina replied, "For one thing, I could restore my family name and get onto the City Council. For another, my work would continue unabated…."

Scooting close on the settee, Faith purred, "But what then? Eventually the new generation will move on."

Irimina just gave her a _look_. "You're assuming Roethe will have children."

("Has Lady Irimina ever expressed an interest in marriage or children?" I asked the maid, who shook her head. "Not that I know of, miss.")

Coquettishly, Faith protested, "There's no need to be so pessimistic!"

At that, Irimina chuckled, as if she were exceedingly diverted by the image of her little brother settling down. (The maid shared that assessment.)

"Who knows?" Faith pointed out. "Maybe someday _you'll_ settle down. After all, there are a lot of cute guys in forever…."

Irimina looked even less convinced by that possibility. "Salia would need – " she began before stopping suddenly and correcting herself, "_I_ would need to do things for the people who helped me."

("Who's Salia?" I asked the maid. "Dunno, miss," she replied.)

Although Faith stared at her as hopefully as a cat that smelled a saucer of milk, Irimina declined to elaborate. She said only, in a firm tone, "The important part is not ending."

Into the silence that followed, Faith commented softly, "One of the advantages of all the time in the world is that you have all the time in the world to figure out what to do with all the time in the world."

Then she flirted until Irimina cheered back up.

* * *

After dismissing Irimina's maid, I headed to the Sword Academy to teach the little kiddies, with a detour by the Leaky Bucket so Sawbones could check my legs. He pronounced them almost entirely healed, although his rueful expression suggested that he didn't expect that to hold for long. Fair enough, but for the time being, I luxuriated in being able to demonstrate thrusts and parries myself. Exhilarated by my own agility, I launched into a series of illustrative examples, drawing on my personal experiences in U'Duasha and Doskvol. My students' awed expressions egged me on, and eventually I found myself showing off attacks and feints for fighting a water demon in a canal (and which I wished I'd thought of at the time).

After class, while I was moping my forehead and realizing that I was woefully out of shape, Vaati tiptoed up to me. Under cover of his classmates' excited buzz, he whispered, "Miss Glass?"

"Yes, Vaati?"

He hesitated, then spoke in a rush. "Miss Glass, a strange woman approached me yesterday. I'd never seen her before, but she immediately started asking questions about you and that other lady. Miss Glass, the woman was just _wrong_." His voice trailed off.

For an Iruvian, "wrong" uttered in that tone could only spell demonic involvement. I prodded him for details, as I would a new informant. "What did you do?"

"I told her that I'd seen you and your associate – the one with the, er, fancy dress – together, and then I ran away."

Better if he'd skipped straight to running away part, but it was too late now. "What else did you say?" I demanded.

"Noth– nothing else. I don't think I said anything else…?"

My severe expression said everything that needed to be said.

* * *

The next time I saw my associate of the fancy dress, I relayed the incident to her and Ash, pointing out that this odd woman was more along her lines than mine.

With a secretive smile that told me she knew exactly who the demon was, Faith purred, "Why, are you saying that I'm an odd woman?" Something about my air convinced her that I wasn't in the mood for joking, because she gave a little shrug and said glibly, "Oh, well, if someone is starting a fan club, I should find them and give them pointers. I'm a complicated girl."

Rolling my eyes, I pointedly turned my back.

"Yes," agreed Ash, "finding them is probably for the best."

"I want details on the 'fan club'," I informed the window.

"Oh, Isha, I _knew_ you wanted to join it!" Bounding over, Faith threw her arms around me from behind, practically cracking my ribs in the process.

Wrenching free, I gave her a look that said that as soon as I located the members of this fan club, I would murder them one by one.

As usual, she ignored me. "By the way, Isha, I've been hearing the wildest tales about your prowess at fighting demons in canals! Your students think you're the greatest canal-demon-fighter ever! _I _could have told them that." She waggled her eyebrows at my legs.

Oh gods, the beginner class. The illustrative examples. I could feel myself turning bright red. "I – "

"Don't worry, Isha!" she assured me magnanimously. "I'll take care of it!"

That was what I was afraid of.


	21. More Heat Reduction

"Wait! Faith – !"

But it was too late. Upon that ringing declaration, Faith fastened a spirit bottle to her sash, shouldered her lightning hook, and skipped out of the railcar.

"Faith, come back! I can handle it myself!"

I skidded to the doorway just in time to see her hop lightly over a set of rotten railroad ties and disappear behind a line of old freight cars. Swinging jauntily at her waist, the spirit bottle caught a glimmer of light and winked an impish farewell.

Snatching up my cloak, I flung a hasty "I'm taking Sleipnir for a walk" in Ash's direction and pelted outside. Before I could catch myself, I whistled the way I used to call my Saluki.

Not a sleek, golden Iruvian desert hound but a scruffy, brownish-greyish three-legged Akorosi mutt trotted up to me, cocking his head all the way to the side and inspecting me for signs of food. Well, much as I hated to admit it, Sleipnir was a great deal smarter than poor old Starlight. (Inbreeding did tend to have that effect.) Before I could stamp down the thought, I wondered what had happened to her after I fled. Did she miss me? Did she wait for me to return? Did she love _him_ more now?

Raising one muddy forepaw, Sleipnir scratched my leg, his broken claws raising snags on the fabric. Good thing I never liked these trousers anyway. "Good boy. Heel," I commanded absently in Hadrathi.

Together, we shadowed Faith all the way to Six Towers, huddling in a dark doorway when she stopped at the end of Rowan Bridge and propped her elbows on the balustrade.

"Sit," I mouthed at Sleipnir, still speaking in Hadrathi, and pressed on his hindquarters until he obeyed. He grinned up at me, pink tongue lolling out like one of Faith's sashes. "Good boy," I murmured, my attention focused on my crewmate.

Although I saw nothing extraordinary about the swarm of ghosts infesting the bridge, Faith was gaping in open-mouthed wonderment as if she were back at Spiregarden Theater, marveling at the talents of a Carter Vale or a Sisi Bell. Following her gaze, I encountered a large, imperious ghost haunting the midpoint, right where I'd thrown Ronia Helker and myself into the black waters. Around Helker's ghost darted a small, raggedy spirit that harassed and nipped, tearing off and devouring little pieces of her essence while she whirled and bared her teeth but always dodged a second too late. (Given my interactions with Faith, I felt some amount of camaraderie with the dead general.)

Beckoning with her lightning hook, Faith compelled the little ghost to approach her. When it finally held still, its flickering form resolved into a girl just on the cusp of womanhood. "Why, you're a lovely little morsel," Faith remarked, scanning the ghost's frayed edges. "What is your name?"

In a reedy voice, the little ghost chirped, "Cricket."

Faith smiled in a particularly un-reassuring way. "Well, Cricket, you see, Mrs. Helker over there is something of a problem for me. I'm intrigued by how you're harrying her! You're so quick and so lively, and you just steal little bits of her soul…. How would you like to help me take out larger chunks?"

Eagerly, the little ghost asked, "Would you let me eat them?"

Faith enunciated, "Every. Last. Bit."

That was all Cricket needed. Like a flash of lightning, she zipped across the bridge and spun around Helker, nearly driving the larger ghost mad with fury. Meanwhile, Faith prowled up behind the general, raised her lightning hook, and nodded at Cricket. At the signal, the little ghost bit Helker's leg as hard as she could, ripped off a hunk of electroplasm, and then dashed behind Faith with her prize.

Bellowing like a thunderclap, Helker whirled.

Faith grinned hugely. Lightning sparked from the silvery loop at the tip of her rod.

The general's hollow eyes widened when she realized that here was her last stand.

("Maybe you shouldn't look," I muttered to Sleipnir, who didn't act particularly perturbed.)

General Helker put up a valiant struggle, one absolutely worthy of her name. She lunged and clawed, feinted and parried, and very nearly flanked Faith a couple times.

Skirts flying as if she stood in a gale, pale gold hair flapping around her face like a banner, Faith shrieked with glee and wielded her lightning hook like a spear. Every time the loop made contact, she gouged out one more piece of Helker's soul and tossed it to Cricket. At long last, all that was left was a tattered blue mesh, glowing dimly between Faith's hands.

With a contented sigh, she sealed the remnants of Ronia Helker into the spirit bottle and re-fastened it to her sash. On the ground, a more solid-looking Cricket twined around her ankles like an affectionate cat.

Faith petted her on the head. "Thank you for your help."

"You know where to find me!" cried Cricket, her voice stronger now, and twirled around a corner.

Smiling to herself, Faith strolled into the network of alleys and vanished as well.

A weight in my lap made me look down. Somewhere in the middle of Faith's epic Whisper battle, Sleipnir had wriggled into my lap, and now he was snoring away while infesting me with fleas. I commented, "Well, I guess you make a better pet than Faith's ghost."

He didn't deign to open his eyes.

* * *

The next day, before I could escape to the Sword Academy, Faith stopped me in the hallway outside our compartments and sang out, "I took care of your problem, Isha!" Then, as if suddenly registering my attire: "Oh, is it time for another class? Please, do try to gain more heat for us! It's always such a pleasure to clean up my crewmate's messes!"

Luckily for her, Ash was around to witness any, shall we say, _accidents_ that might have befallen her in that dark, narrow hallway.

* * *

I didn't gain any more heat for us.

Like last time, I demonstrated moves that I claimed I'd used while cornered by a dozen Cutters in a dead end near the Crow's Nest – but the thrusts were so exaggeratedly theatrical that even my dimmer students began to furrow their brows and look askance at one another.

Sword in hand, I rounded on one of them. "Did you _really_ believe that would work?" I snapped.

"Uh…yes, Miss Glass?" At my expression: "I mean, no! Definitely no!"

"Just how gullible are you?" I roared. "Catching your opponent's hilt with your own to send their sword flying? How would that even work? Have you learned _nothing_?" I glowered at the class as a whole.

The students mumbled something indistinct and studied their shoes.

In a scathing tone, I informed them, "You are certainly welcome to _try_ that maneuver, but in that case, don't even _dream _of telling anyone that you learned it here. Oh wait, no – you won't be able to tell anyone anything – because you'll be _dead_!"

More muttering and shuffling of feet.

"So who believed the demon tale from last time?" I demanded, glaring around the room as if daring one student, any student, to look me in the eye and confess.

No one did.

Pretending to believe them, I sheathed my sword, brushed off my hands, and said briskly, "Good. Life lesson of the day: Never assume that those in positions of authority will tell you the truth. Class dismissed."

* * *

After my students had scampered like mice into the changing rooms, I threw a servant's coarse dress over my blouse and leggings and bustled off to Brightstone to check on the Iruvian Consulate. The cleaning crew hadn't seen anyone resembling _him_ – although that didn't necessarily mean much – but I had better luck with the stable staff.

Elstera's coachman reported, "Miss, there was a big to-do at the Bowmores' a couple days back. In Whitecrown," he specified, in case anyone in Doskvol didn't know where the Bowmores lived. "One of the footmen was talking about a young Skovlander lord who's very popular with the young ladies – and some of the gentlemen too. He came here maybe two months ago."

That timing lined up with when _he'd_ arrived, or at least when I thought he'd arrived, and I could certainly see him charming his way into all the right circles. I could just picture it: an elegant drawing room all done up in gold and crimson, and underneath the electroplasmic chandelier, a flock of lords in frock coats and top hats, and ladies in silks of all colors, all of them laughing at his jokes, vying to speak to him, revolving around him…. With that bright golden hair and those big blue eyes, that faintly roguish smile and that trick of looking at you as if you and you alone were special to him, who could resist? All those vapid, shallow, ditzes would be swooning at his feet in heaps of fabric, feathers, and fake flowers.

Recalling my own rough dress, the mud on my boots, and the stained shawl, I stamped down a surge of murderous jealousy. After all, maybe they were cooing over an entirely different young Skovlander lord. Maybe it wasn't _him_.

The coachman was still speaking. "I beg your pardon," I said with a forced smile. "Can you repeat that?"

He could. He already knew that I paid well. "The footman also said that he'd heard that the lord is looking for a stolen sword. An…Iruvian sword?" His brow furrowed, as if he didn't quite credit a rumor that mixed isles like that. "He thinks it's in Doskvol."

And there it was.

I'd found him.

Well, almost.

* * *

Apparently, Ash had had an equally satisfactory day. As soon as I walked into the common area of our railcar, still in a bit of a daze, he launched into a detailed lecture on how one could, if one were so inclined, dismantle Doskvol's economy.

"The leviathan blood industry is their greatest vulnerability," he expounded. "Collapsing it would bring down the entire Imperium."

"Mmmmhmmm," I said absently, considering where I should search next. If _he_ were playing visiting nobleman, it simply wouldn't do to stay in any district besides Brightstone or maybe even Whitecrown. Could he afford Whitecrown? Would the House finance that?

"I've been buying up predatory lenders around here," Ash continued blithely. "And bounty hunters. Basically, I'm getting a feed on the local economy."

"Mmmmhmmm," I agreed. No, I decided, the House would consider Whitecrown too flashy. Brightstone made more sense. I should focus my hunt there. Unfortunately, it was a very large district.

"I'm worried about Irimina's finances," Ash remarked, which finally jarred me to partial attention.

Drifting over to the frilly chair Faith had left by a window, I sank into it and propped my chin on the sill. "We've been worried for a while," I pointed out. "Isn't that why we set up the Hive thing?"

"Yes, but I just had an idea: Irimina can hire us to…replace some unsavory people." When that prompted no reaction from me, he proclaimed as if he were addressing Parliament, "Helene's time has come. Both Brannon and Irimina will gain from her replacement. It will be a win-win situation for everyone but Helene – who will be dead."

Hmmm, who else could I recruit to search for _him_? I couldn't hope to cover Brightstone all by myself. So whom did I trust?

At the same time, Ash was saying, "It will be an excellent way to restore our finances and ensure our cash flow."

As far as I could tell, our finances were in no need of restoration and our cash flow was already ensured via his own sister. But I shrugged and traced little loops in the grime on the window. "I have no objections."

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Faith entering silently and stopping short when she saw me in her chair. "Very well," she said sweetly. She prowled a few more steps forward.

Ash finally gave up on extracting a productive consultation from me. "Good enough," he decided. "I'll check how things are going with Brannon. My plan is to convince him to have Irimina hire us to kill Helene. After all, I've reviewed the Stag's and his finances, and his debt is accumulating at rates he can't possibly handle. If we remove Helene, then he, Irimina, and we can split the profits from the casino. Isha, did you want to come with me?"

Not really. "Thanks, but I'll pass – "

My answer was choked off when a big, pink cloud of ruffles landed in my lap, squealing, "Isha! How nice of you to serve as my cushion!"

Half-suffocated by silk and gauze, I heard Ash's muffled "I'll just go see Brannon myself then," and the sounds of his boots beating a hasty retreat.


	22. A Favor for Brannon

By the time Ash's ventures bore fruit and Irimina invited us to tea, I'd almost scrubbed the scent of Faith's perfume out of my pores. Just to be on the safe side, though, I donned my most severe, forbidding, governess-y dress, complete with my most severe, forbidding, governess-y expression. I didn't know how much of a deterrent came from my outfit, my demeanor, or Faith's own sense of self-preservation, but my lap stayed mercifully crewmate-free when we sat down in the Kinclaith parlor.

Draped over her usual divan, Irimina was contemplating the steam rising from her teapot. As she rose to pour for the guests, she drawled, "I have a job for you – if you're free."

"For you, always," Ash replied promptly.

Faith gasped, as proud as a parent whose toddler had just started spewing classical verse. "You stole my line!"

With a dry smirk, he answered, "I'm learning."

Wonderful. And here I was thinking that one Faith was already more than any crew should have to handle. Folding my hands demurely in my lap, I sighed quietly to myself.

Apparently Irimina felt the same way. Cutting through their nonsense, she steered us back to business. "I have a family friend, Brannon Keel. I'd like to do a favor for him."

Based on that opening, the young nobleman had been too proud to reveal who really came up with the idea for the hostile casino takeover. Or maybe Ash had urged him to take credit. Whatever the reason, Ash and I gave Irimina matching blank, expectant stares. Faith was too busy investigating a blueberry scone to react.

"Do you know the Golden Stag in Silkshore?"

"I've heard of it," I said neutrally.

As if dreading that our patron was about to confess family ties to its owner as well, Ash replied, "I do." In the reluctant tone of one determined to do his duty, he disclosed, "It's complicated, but I happen to despise it. It's personal."

Irimina looked as if she quite liked that response. She refilled my teacup, saying, "I need you to remove the proprietress, Helene."

With an air of relief, he told her, "That's what we're here for."

Faith, who was holding a cup of tea in one hand and a petit four in the other, gave him a very weird look.

Ignoring her with admirable determination, Irimina continued, "Brannon and I would both like it to look like an accident."

At that, Faith's entire face lit up like Spiregarden Theater on show night. "We're very creative at coming up with accidents!" To emphasize that statement, she took a large bite of cake.

Irimina nodded appreciatively, acknowledging said creativity and all the impediments it had removed for her in the past. "And I've been impressed by your…accidents. However, in this case, I'm worried about the Hive's attention. I'd like to keep my and Brannon's names far, far away."

Gulping down the mouthful of cake, Faith proclaimed mournfully, "I have an artistic spirit that just keeps getting crushed." Then she sank all the way down on the sofa until her skirts rucked up around her knees.

Ash's eyes, however, widened at the thought of a(nother) lucrative sideline for the crew. "Faith, do you teach drama classes?" he wondered out loud.

On the verge of sliding right off the sofa cushions, Faith dismissed it immediately. "I have no time. I'm too busy murdering people." And preserving her dignity. Although that might have been a lost cause from the start.

Luckily, Irimina had already figured out how to deal with her. Leaning forward (and looking down), she suggested earnestly, "My dear Faith, is this not an opportunity to express your artistry?"

It worked. Faith perked right up. "Once again, you've slipped into my soul!"

Irimina smiled at her wryly before she looked over at Ash and me. "For the rest of you, I assume eight coin?"

Ash pretended to ponder the offer, and then in the tones of one granting a royal favor, condescended to propose, "May I suggest a reduced rate in exchange for a long-term stake in the establishment? Say, six coin plus one-third ownership?"

Almost without thinking about it, as if she too had already considered the issue and drawn a similar conclusion, she agreed. "Yes, I think that will work for everyone."

"Then we will go practice our artistry," announced Ash, rising from the sofa and leaving his tea untouched.

Hastily, I drained the rest of mine and eyed the little sandwiches, wondering if I could slip a couple into my pockets without anyone noticing. They looked like they'd be perfect for surveillance missions.

"I look forward to seeing what you come up with," Irimina informed us grandly, and right on cue, the butler popped up to escort us to the door before I could practice my sleight-of-hand. Ah, well. At the rate Tess was funneling coin into our coffers, soon we'd be able to afford our own cucumber sandwiches.

Behind us, tea splashed into Faith's cup. "Didn't you want to hear ghost stories this time?" her sultry voice inquired, hinting at forbidden passions and trysts by moonlight.

I could practically hear Irimina's smile. "Always, Faith. Always."

"Then I have the perfect story for you!" Without even a pause for breath, Faith launched into a swashbuckling tale of how she was deserted by dastardly companions whom she would not name, right in the middle of a score. (I felt slightly offended by the implication that Ash and I would abandon her, even if I'd considered it once or twice – maybe especially because I'd considered it once or twice.) "They _left_ me!" she cried passionately. "Can you imagine? They left me all alone to confront a massive, hunger-crazed, vicious ghost all by myself!" I heard a sharp intake of breath from Irimina and a rustle of fabric, as if she'd leaned forward in anticipation. "But then I saw a lovely young thing nipping at this slow, ponderous creature!"

"If miss would follow me, please?" interrupted a male voice. Clearing his throat, the butler gestured elegantly down the hallway and herded us politely towards the foyer.

Faith's voice pursued us the entire way. "It couldn't get enough sustenance! It was tragically wasting away! So together we planned and we schemed and we plotted to divide up the colossus and banish whatever we couldn't eat or use into the void using my trusty lightning hook…."

The closing of the front door mercifully cut her off.

* * *

Instead of heading straight home, Ash and I lounged in the shadows across from the Kinclaith mansion and mimicked passing aristocrats in a friendly contest. After an hour of increasingly exaggerated drawls and boneless hand gestures, we finally saw Faith sashay down the Kinclaith front walk, brimming over with tea and cakes and bubbly good cheer.

"Oh, there she is," commented Ash. Waving enthusiastically in an excellent imitation of the young nobleman who'd just rolled by in a shiny, goat-drawn landau, he called, "Hulloo! Over here!"

I tittered and rapped his arm playfully with a fan, replicating the mannerisms of the nobleman's chic lady friend. "Oooooh, what a woooon-derful memory for faces you have!" Hmm, that wasn't quite right. The angle of the fan needed work. I whacked him a few more times while Faith minced her way over.

She beamed at us beatifically, slipped an arm through each of ours, and tugged us down the street. As if continuing a conversation we'd been having all along, she quizzed Ash, "So, you're more _intimate_ with our target." She drew out the "intimate" almost lewdly, but then spoiled it with a giggle. "Please elaborate on our elaborate plans for her creatively accidental demise!"

Ash needed no further provocation to regale us with trivia about Helene's habits. "She worships a rival to That Which Hungers. There's money in it – I'm sure of that."

"It's the Golden Stag, right?" I pointed out. "You'd _expect_ there to be money in it." Honestly, I wasn't sure why Ash wasn't a devotee himself.

Ash ignored that. "Helene never gambles herself. At her casino, the house always wins."

Well, yes. What sort of gambling den would it be if the house didn't rig the games? Once we took over, we'd do the same. Or rather, Brannon Keel would do the same, with copious guidance from Ash.

"Since we've established a theme for our modus operandi, I suggest that we target her through her vice." Ash reclaimed his arm from Faith and waved it at the enormous plate-glass store windows on Goldcrest Avenue, Brightstone's main shopping district. "She adores luxury. She squanders invaluable time shopping for silk gowns and fancy hats, or soaking in this _spa_." He practically spat out the word, then cast a guilty glance in my direction. "It's apparently Iruvian style. With rose petals."

That didn't sound like any bath I was familiar with, although my family didn't exactly patronize the public watering holes of U'Duasha. We had our own tubs and pools, all lined with intricate mosaics of seascapes and fantastical creatures, thank you very much. "Do you know the name?"

"The Moon's Embrace," he answered.

I cringed.

"I know," he agreed with a twist of the lips.

Faith clamped down on my arm. "But I like it!" she protested. "It's so sentimental!"

Cloying, even. Speaking of cloying – weren't there toxins that smelled and tasted sweet? "Can we poison her bath?" I asked Ash.

"Hmmm, probably. We could make it look like she drowned, or hit her head and then drowned…oh yes, I can just picture the blood swirling in the water with all the rose petals! If they're the right shade, it would be so pretty!" Ash reigned himself in with an effort, aided by my incredulous expression. "Then again, Faith is the expert on artistry."

The resident artist stared off dreamily into the distance. "I've pondered for _years_ how to murder someone with rose petals, but I have yet to find an answer."

Ash shrugged, back to his practical self. "It doesn't have to be the spa. Helene also likes jewelry, gourmet food, and fine wine."

By now we'd crossed into Charterhall and were strolling down Imperial Avenue, past all the government offices and their dirty marble facades. To the east rose Six Towers in a dark blur of ramshackle rooftops and bent chimneys. Recalling how we'd dealt with the Helkers' coachman, I suggested, "We could poison her food. How about pufferfish? I hear it's easy to die if the chef isn't perfectly precise in their knifework."

Ash mused, "Is there any way she could die from choking on stag meat?"

Not likely. I'd never seen a stag anywhere, not even in Captain Rye's Menagerie. I wasn't even convinced the creatures existed.

Faith piped up with a surprisingly sensible idea. "We could blame it on the mother of a gambler. Ah, mothers. They can hold a grudge for decades."

"And you would know this _how_?" I asked.

She just winked.

All the way down Imperial Avenue back into Coalridge, we ran through a panoply of options. They ranged from Helene plummeting off a high platform (uncertain why she'd climb one in the first place), to getting injured and seeking treatment from a doctor who happened to be the parent of one of her debtors (too complicated). In the end, we settled on drowning her in the spa.

"Ah, I _do _approve of a more relaxing score!" Faith sighed happily.

"For us or for her?" I muttered.

She pretended not to hear. "Just drifting off to sleep in a bath and never waking up! What could be more luxurious?"

"There _is_ wine that puts one into a deep sleep," said Ash. "I'll look into it."

Flippantly, I remarked, "We can even make sure the color of the wine matches the rose petals."

* * *

We did, in fact, obtain a bottle of carmine wine to match the carmine rose petals that Helene favored for her exotic, cultural-appropriating bath. Ash even splurged on a batch of petals made from gold leaf to scatter among the real ones.

It seemed, somehow, poetic.


	23. Helene

"I _love_ the pink of the walls! What a delightful shade! It sets up the exactly the right mood for meditation! I should find out what this color is called so we can repaint the railcar! Isha, don't you agree that what the Old Rail Yard really needs is a pink railcar?"

"Ummm."

I was too dismayed by the décor of the Moon's Embrace, which inclined, as Ash had warned, towards faux-Iruvian. The lobby walls and front desk were plastered with varnished papers that had been painted to resemble swirling pink marble slabs. On the side closer to the baths and their humidity, the paper had already begun to peel, a state of affairs only partially concealed by lush palms in crude Iruvian clay pots and cliched posters of Iruvian beauties. All around us, bronze-skinned, black-haired, cat-eyed sirens in gauzy silk harem pants reclined against moonlit marble balusters and gazed down at us soulfully.

Could we convince Brannon and Irimina to take over the spa instead of the casino? I wouldn't mind assassinating the owner of the Moon's Embrace – or at least its interior decorator.

"_Or_," Faith interrupted my thoughts, scrutinizing my face to see what got the best reaction, "maybe we don't need to repaint the railcar. Maybe all we need to do is find out where the owner bought this gorgeous wallpaper." I glowered at the poorly executed imitation marble. "Or these posters!" Satisfied by my involuntary exclamation, she continued mercilessly along that line of attack. "I think a few on the wall behind the bar will lighten up the entire common area!"

Luckily for Faith (and Brannon, Irimina, Ash, and the crew coffers), the bath attendant we'd pre-bribed marched up to us, wearing not sensual, flowing harem pants but a crisp navy blue nurse's dress and a starched white hat, plus sensible black shoes with low heels. Thank goodness. "If you will come this way, please?" she ordered in a no-nonsense tone entirely at odds with the ambience of the place.

I liked her already.

Actually, I'd liked her since Ash and I approached her outside the casino, the night she lost a month's wages at the gambling tables and stalked out with her face tight and lips pinched. Some women might collapse under the strain of maintaining both a home and a gambling addiction on a bath attendant's salary, but not Una. She'd listened to our proposition with a hard expression and then bargained so effectively that Ash's eyes lit up at the challenge.

Now she led Faith and me down a long hallway lit by yellowish gas lamps shaped vaguely like ancient Iruvian turbans. Who _was_ the interior decorator? If _he _had come to Doskvol to avenge the family honor and kill me, could I persuade him to avenge the honor of all Iruvians and kill the interior decorator first?

"Awwww, aren't the lamps so cute?" gushed Faith, bouncing along.

Una responded for me. "No," she stated curtly. "They're a pain to clean."

I could only imagine.

Undaunted, Faith flitted from door to door, peering at the bronze plaques mounted by each one and reading the names by gaslight.

"Opal Room."

"Emerald Room."

"Ruby Room."

Each plaque had the name of the room engraved on it in ancient Hadrathi runes, plus an Akorosian translation. I couldn't read the runes, but _he'd _started learning shortly before I left.

For a brief moment, I was home again, squeezed onto a sofa beside him and reading over his shoulder while he wrestled with the grammar or lack thereof. (Ancient Hadrathi was a language composed of more exceptions than rules.) _He_ could have told me whether the Moon's Embrace had spelled the words correctly.

"Which one is ours?" Faith demanded, interrupting my reverie and utterly ignoring the fact that Una was literally in the process of escorting us to our room.

"Here. The Moonstone Room."

The bath attendant flung open a door at the end of the hall to reveal a room perhaps twice the size of our railcar common area. Most of it was taken up by a sunken pool lined with gaudy tiles crudely painted with stylized flowers. White candles flickered in little alcoves set into the walls, and carmine rose petals drifted on the surface of the water, their sweet scent mingling with the steam.

"Bathrobes are over there." Una jerked her chin at a row of hooks over a bench and cubbies where we could leave our street clothes. "Towels are on the ledge by the door." Stooping, she dipped a hand into the pool to gauge the temperature. "Your _friend _will be next door in the Ruby Room. I'll leave you to it."

I nodded my thanks, handed her half of the fee (the rest to be paid after the score), and shut the door firmly.

There was a loud splash behind me.

Faith surfaced, water streaming down her head and shoulders. "It's lovely in here!" she called. "Come in, Isha!"

I shook my head. "No, thanks. We talked about this, remember?"

* * *

In the initial planning stages, I'd categorically refused to play patron of the Moon's Embrace. Although I didn't admit it to my crewmates, I hated letting anyone see the lacework of scars all over my body. (Bazso was an exception – but then again, he had an even more impressive collection. Not to mention deformed internal organs.)

Faith, naturally, had refused to accept the idea that anyone could set foot in a spa and keep all her clothes on. "But it will be a bonding experience!" she had urged. "Just think – our first girls' night out!"

To my surprise, Ash had seconded that. "I've already been hired as a bath attendant," he'd reminded me. "We don't need two of us escorting Helene around the spa. It would be abnormal."

"And just think how suspicious it will look when two new staff disappear at the same time! And what will your students think if they see you? It _is_ an Iruvian spa, isn't it?" Faith had looked as if she rather liked the image of the Zayanas turning bright pink when I came across them in a scented pool.

I'd retorted, "They'll think that the Red Sash Sword Academy doesn't pay enough." And they'd be right. Maybe having a fencing instructor double as a masseuse would goad Mylera into raising our wages, but I doubted it.

"Oh come on, Isha," Faith had wheedled. "You know these things are never fun if you go by yourself."

Ash had just stared at me, waiting for me to decide.

"I won't have to get into the water, will I?" I'd asked warily. Those silly, flimsy, little bathrobes would expose the claw marks on my calves, but maybe if I kept the folds tightly wrapped, they would cover the rest….

"You don't need to do anything you don't feel comfortable doing," Ash had assured me. "You don't even need to get in the water."

* * *

But now Faith hopped back out of the pool and tugged me towards the steps. "Come on, Isha, you have to try it!" she urged. "Just look at how pretty the rose petals are! And the attendant even perfumed the water! And she lit all these pretty candles! You wouldn't want to waste all her efforts to make us feel comfortable, would you?"

Planting my feet on the tiled floor, I braced against her tugging. "I'm fine, thanks."

She switched to a different tack. "Just think how suspicious it will look if she walks in and you're sitting in a corner, glowering like a murderer!" She put a finger to her cheek prettily. "Unless you're trying to get more heat for us again?"

"What? No! I – "

She plunged back into the water with another great splash, resurfacing with rose petals clinging like rubies to her pale blonde tresses. Treading water in the middle of the pool, she called, "Come on, Isha! It feels wonderful!"

Footsteps and voices in the hallway made me jump. Opening the door a crack, I peeked out to see Una rounding the corner with another patron.

"You see?" Faith said sweetly. "You're as tense as – a really tense thing! You're missing the entire point of a spa."

A different bath attendant walked down the hall from the other direction, her white hat almost glowing under the lights. She smiled politely at me. "Did you need something, miss?"

"Er, um, no." I hastily pulled the door shut.

"I _told_ you so," said Faith cheerfully, splashing water at me.

"All right, all right, all right."

Turning my back and hiding under a towel, I stripped off my street clothes. With the thin bathrobe clutched tight around me, I tentatively descended the steps until the hem brushed the surface of the water. Then, in one swift motion, I whipped it off and ducked under the petals.

When I came back up to breath, Faith was ready. "I _love_ the angle of that scar!" she proclaimed. "And the slash of that one…."

Sinking all the way to my chin, I folded my arms and refused to acknowledge her presence.

An eternity later, Ash's footsteps accompanied an unfamiliar tapping pattern down the hall in our direction. I stiffened. Eyes closed, Faith floated on the water with her hair spread out like a tangle of canal weeds.

"I hope you found the massage and manicure to your satisfaction, ma'am," Ash was saying meekly. The footsteps entered the Ruby Room. "Here is your wine."

A harsh female voice demanded, "What vintage is it?"

Ash hesitated – cabernet empoisonné? – but she was already saying curtly, "You've let it sit open too long. Tell Remira to send me another one."

"That's not good," I mouthed at Faith, who'd finally opened her eyes.

"Picky, picky," she commented, although whether she meant that for Helene or me was unclear. Probably both.

"At once, ma'am."

Ash's footsteps hurried away. Well, at least he'd persuaded the sommelier, another of Helene's debtors, to feign illness and take the day off, so he should have no trouble obtaining a replacement bottle.

All was quiet next door. What was the woman doing – sitting by the pool with her arms crossed while she awaited the arrival of appropriate wine? Paddling over to the steps, I half-sat, half-floated while all three of us waited for Ash's return.

Not too long afterwards, he re-entered the Ruby Room. "Remira seeks to humbly apologize for the insult to you," he said smoothly. "Here is a sampler of our finest wines to make up for it. At our expense, of course."

Did Ash know anything about wine? I knew I should have played employee instead of patron!

"This is acceptable," Helene informed him, sounding slightly mollified. "You may retire."

A moment later, a quick knock sounded at our door. Ash opened it with his head pointedly averted and put a stack of fresh towels on the ledge, the signal that Helene had drunk the poisoned wine. In five minutes, she'd begin to feel sleepy, and in ten, she'd start to hallucinate. Stealthily, Faith and I rose from the water, changed back into street clothes, and hovered by the door.

After the ten minutes were up, we heard Ash enter the Ruby Room again. "Should I ask the sommelier to continue?" he inquired, continuing to play bath attendant.

There was just long enough of a silence to suggest that the poison had taken effect. I'd begun to relax when a terrifying voice boomed, reverberating through the wall and floor and making all the candle flames tremble: "DID_ YOU _DO THIS?"

Something clattered and shattered on the tiles. The door slammed.

Feigning calmness, Faith and I strode into the hallway – to find Ash practically plastered against the wall under one of the lamps. Shudders racked his body from head to foot, and his glazed eyes stared fixedly at the door of the Ruby Room. Ringing his left wrist were blue-black bruises in the shape of fingertips. Catching sight of us, he stuttered, "Some– something's wrong. It's not _her. _ Anymore. It's – it's – "

I processed that in a split second. "Can we kill the body of a human possessed by a god?"

"I – I don't – "

The door crashed open.

I spun around to see a pretty, middle-aged woman framed in the doorway. A pair of majestic antlers blazed like torches above her dark gold hair. Her eyes, irises and whites alike, had turned to solid gold so I couldn't even tell where she was looking, but that blind gaze stabbed into my mind, clenched around it like a gauntlet, and _squeezed_.

I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

Terror.

Terror and adoration and revulsion and an incomprehensible, inexorable compulsion to kneel and pray that I might be spared….

* * *

Black crystal, jagged and alien, glittered in the light of the flames of U'du.

Father's voice, uncharacteristically reverent, breathed, "Children, this is the Spire of Ixis."

A child's version of my hand, still plump and soft and unmarred, stretched out, tentatively, tremblingly, and brushed the icy crystal with its fingertips. I felt – I felt –

An alien malice, unyielding as the mountains and insubstantial as smoke. A vast amusement, the ageless caprice of something that didn't lack pity so much as the capability to comprehend such human trifles as mercy or compassion or grace….

Impatiently, Father crushed my palm against the crystal, and the jagged edges sliced deep into my flesh, and I screamed –

* * *

A tinkling laugh shattered my trance.

Faith darted past me into our room, towing Ash behind her. Eyes still fixed on the Golden Stag, Ash stumbled and stumbled again. Steeling myself, I dashed after them and flung myself to the side, forgetting to hold the door – but when it slammed shut, there was no sound.

In fact, there was no sound at all in the Moonstone Room.

Faith grinned at me and mouthed, "You can thank me later."

Shaky and lightheaded, I crept around to the side, trying to convince myself that I wasn't hiding, I was just repositioning myself so I could trip and fling Helene into the water if she should move this way….

Face taunt under the strain, Ash took a step back, followed by another. One heel slipped off the edge of the pool, and he flailed wildly, fighting to regain his balance.

Abruptly, all traces of fear washed away from his face. His back straightened and his chin came up, and he met those terrible golden eyes, holding that pitiless gaze, challenging the Stag –

Helene's head rotated ninety degrees to stare at something to her side.

Her feet planted and her body angled slightly forward, as if she were pushing with all her strength against something massive, Faith stared back intently. She smiled.

All of a sudden, the antlers flickered and winked out, leaving only golden motes suspended above Helene's head.

Faith floated up a foot above the tiles, eyes shut tight, lips slack, arms dangling limply at her sides.

Leaping forward, mouth open in a soundless shout, Ash grabbed at where the antlers had been and frantically traced runes in the air. A blue glow spread around the motes, trapping them.

Without warning, Helene collapsed like a puppet, crushing Ash beneath her.

Leaping into action at last, I grabbed her shoulders and rolled her off Ash, who moaned piteously but didn't open his eyes. Helene lay limply in the deep sleep of the drugged. That, at least, had gone as planned. Seizing her arms, I started lugging her back towards the Ruby Room.

Shrill screams pierced my eardrums, unbearably loud after the silent battle. A trio of women who were peering confusedly at the plaques on the doors tripped over themselves in an effort to scurry away.

Feigning panic, I yelled after them, "Get help! I heard her scream and found her unconscious! She needs a doctor!"

Looking completely unconvinced, they ran away howling about murder.

"It looks like my services are needed once again," Faith sighed wearily, coming up behind me. "I'll leave you kids to your own devices. Have fun!" Picking up her skirts, she streaked after the eyewitnesses.

Moments later, I heard distant cries of, "She's fainted!" and "Get a doctor!"

It sounded like Faith had matters well in hand.

With Ash out of commission for the foreseeable future, I hauled Helene back into her own room, kicked the door shut, rapped her sharply on the back of the head, and drowned her as intended. As I held her head underwater and monitored the little stream of bubbles rising from her lips and nostrils, a deep hunger roiled and surged within me. _No_,I snapped and stomped on it as hard as I could. That Which Hungers withdrew lazily.

Helene had stopped breathing.

Mechanically, I arranged her on the steps of the pool, making it look like she'd tripped, struck her head, and drowned in a tragic accident. After a moment of thought, I completed the tableau by positioning Ash in the doorway as if he'd fainted from the trauma of finding a dead patron. Then, working swiftly, I pinned my hair into a different style, removed my jacket, and balled it under my skirt to pad out my waistline. Having thus transformed my appearance, I sauntered out to check on Faith.

She lay in the center of the lobby in the middle of an entire circle of patrons and attendants, with a doctor leaning over her to administer smelling salts. Opening her eyes, she sat up so suddenly that some of the patrons gasped. She clutched the doctor's arm and babbled, "You have to help! I heard a scream! I ran out of my room and saw an attendant on the floor! I think he died! You have to check on him!"

That provoked a panic. Attendants broke off and sprinted in my direction, shouting instructions at one another. Patrons snatched their handbags and started streaming out the front door in a mass exodus. In all the confusion, Faith rose unsteadily to her feet, tottered over to the front desk, and leaned against it as if trying to regain her breath. Only I saw her flip rapidly through the guest registry. Slipping over, I helped her locate the names and addresses of the eyewitnesses.

Unwisely, the three women were still there, huddled in a corner by a potted palm, speaking in hushed, urgent voices while trying to decide how much to say and to whom.

Faith helped them decide. Pattering over with a grateful smile, she cried enthusiastically, "Thank you _sooo_ much for sitting with me until I woke! It was sooooo kind of you!"

They jerked up and gaped at her much in the same way Ash and I had stared at the Golden Stag.

I sidled behind the palm to eavesdrop.

"Oh no, miss, it wasn't us – " began the one with the ridiculous hat.

"In fact, it was sooooo kind that I shall simply have to call on you to properly express my gratitude!" Faith rattled off their addresses gaily, lowered her voice a notch, and, still beaming full force, added matter-of-factly, "And if you say anything to the Bluecoats, I'll happily track you down and murder you too." More loudly, she finished, "Well, until next time, then! Good day!" Passing by my hiding spot, she linked her arm through mine without even slowing.

Together, we flowed out the front door along with the other patrons and left Ash to extricate himself whenever he woke. Much as preying on our targets' vices was key to our _modus operandi_, abandoning him at the crime scene also seemed to be tradition.


	24. The Orchid Salon

Of all the people involved in the new management of the casino, Irimina turned out to be the most excited – and not for the expected reasons either.

On the day we met to discuss the transfer of ownership and division of labor and profit, her butler ushered us not into the usual parlor but a large drawing room I'd never seen before. I followed Ash through the doorway and stopped so suddenly that Faith trod on my heels with a loud squeal.

"Isha! The idea of walking forward is to _walk forward_!"

I couldn't even speak.

I was in U'Duasha again.

All around me hung silk scroll paintings of flowers: abstract black-and-white ink washes of hibiscus or jasmine, infinitely detailed renderings of frangipani or orchids. Beneath the paintings gleamed a profusion of rosewood tables, carved with stylized clouds and birds, and lovingly polished until the dark veins stood out against the reddish-brown wood like tiger markings. Each one bore an arrangement of Iruvian artwork – vases of all shapes and sizes coated in the famous black glaze and speckled with golden flecks like the night sky (and the day sky too, here in Doskvol); intricate mosaic pieces depicting elaborate Hadrathi glyphs surrounded by flowering vines; rock crystal ewers carved with fantastic creatures and topped by gold filigree lids; and exotic animals the size of my thumb carved from white and lavender jade.

Irimina's voice emerged from the back of the room, where she was busy adjusting a display of ivory panels. One depicted a butcherbird impaling a lizard on thorny vines. "What do you think of my art collection, Glass?"

I needed a moment to remember that _I _was Glass. "It's impressive," I said at last, with perfect sincerity.

She looked incredibly pleased by that assessment.

"It could be more pink," Faith commented, eyeing the pieces critically. "Have you considered acquiring more pink pieces?"

"Have you insured this collection properly?" was Ash's contribution. "It looks very valuable."

"Yes," Irimina said to Ash. To Faith: "As it turns out, our new joint business venture provides me with an opportunity to remedy the lack of pinkness."

"How so?" Ash and I asked at the same time.

"Brannon and I have discussed renaming and redecorating the casino," she explained. "I intend to donate much of this artwork to the enterprise and treat it as a tax write-off." Looking more animated than I'd ever seen her, she practically babbled, "It gives me the opportunity to order more pieces for my personal collection. For a while, I've wanted to branch out into rare books and manuscripts – I hear there's a tragically recently deceased Vaasu scholar whose family intends to auction off his collection – but I just haven't had the _space_. But Brannon and I were filling out paperwork for the casino, and I rather fancy the Orchid Salon as a new name, so Brannon suggested redecorating in a floral theme, and then we remembered _you_, Glass, and we thought, 'Why not make it more exotic to attract patrons?' It certainly works for the Moon's Embrace Spa."

I hid a wince as best I could. "Indeed, it does," I admitted.

Irimina looked exceedingly pleased with herself.

"The Orchid Salon?" protested Faith. "That's so prosaic! How about…Your Money or Your Life? That seems appropriate, doesn't it? Or…or…oh, oh, I have it! The Brown Venison!"

Irimina actually laughed, exhilarated by the prospect of draining her finances (again) to splurge on, er, _invest in_ objets d'art. "Thank you for the input, Faith, but we've already filed the paperwork for the name change."

* * *

Over the next few days, Ash spent a lot of time at the Bluecoat station in Silkshore, patiently answering questions about what happened in the spa. Conveniently, during the initial struggle with the Golden Stag, he'd dropped a bottle and splashed red wine on himself. All he had to do now was mesmerize the Bluecoats into believing that he fainted upon discovering Helene's body, and then silly eyewitnesses mistook the wine stains for blood, panicked, and caused the entire uproar. Ash, as we all knew, could be very persuasive. The Bluecoats never stood a chance.

Remira also suspected nothing when Ash handed in his resignation. "My delicate nerves render me unable to continue serving this fine establishment," he explained woefully to the proprietress, who only ran a hand through her hair and sighed. She had bigger worries than the specific reason one bath attendant was leaving. The rest of her staff was also quitting in droves.

Ash even found a way to convert heat reduction into coin: by selling his story to the tabloids. He sat down for an interview with a "reporter" from the _Dockside Telegraph_ to expound upon the theory that Iruvian demons had taken offense at the cultural appropriation and cursed the spa and all who set foot on its premises. (I gave him pointers for what enraged demons.) Then he fielded questions from the _North Hook Gazette _and _Doskvol Times_ in order to "set the record straight: I saw no signs of demonic involvement whatsoever. The patron's death was a tragic accident, and to suggest anything else is criminally irresponsible. Has the City Council considered banning the _Dockside Telegraph_? It does a lot more harm than good – in fact, I can't think of a single instance where it's done anyone any good," the _Gazette _quoted him as saying sententiously (and disingenuously, considering how much good the tabloid had done _us_). The _Times_ ran an editorial on the perils of overindulging in luxury, also quoting Ash extensively.

After that, no one even thought to question the nature of Helene's demise.

* * *

Once life had settled back into its usual routine, I finally found a spare moment to see Sawbones about my legs. As I approached the Leaky Bucket, the Lampblacks loitering around the front door straightened smartly. "Good day, Glass!" one said in a heavy Skovlander accent, saluting clumsily. Another even rushed to open the door for me.

Inside, Lampblacks interrupted their conversations to greet me cheerfully. Hands even reached out to pat me on the shoulder or thump me on the back, only for their owners to get a scolding from their neighbors. "Don't touch her! That's so disrespectful." "Hey, you nearly knocked her over!"

In his corner booth, Bazso raised an amused eyebrow and cleared his throat, quelling his gang. I cocked my head to a side, asking silently, "Did _you_ tell them about Ronia Helker?"

He spread his hands in a gesture that might have meant, "How could you expect me to keep _that_ a secret?" just as easily as, "Well, you know how Sawbones talks."

Disgruntled, I bought a shot of the doctor's favorite whiskey from Mardin, who granted me an approving smile, and hurried into the back room.

"Everyone seems to be in a good mood," I remarked to Sawbones, feigning casualness. I hopped onto the table and rolled up my trousers.

"Mmmm, yes, miss," he replied absently. He inspected the scars and shook his head. "You've torn some of them open again. They'll never heal if you don't _rest._"

"I couldn't help it," I pointed out.

"I know, I know," he sighed. "That's what they all say." Getting out a roll of bandages, he started wrapping my legs. "You're a hero now, you know."

I thought of Tocker Helker and how much he'd loved his wife. I thought of their two kids, grieving and motherless. My voice came out harsher than I'd intended. "No, I hadn't known."

Sawbones paused in his bandaging to eye me curiously. "General Helker did some terrible things in Skovlan during the war, miss," he pointed out gently. "Some would argue she went far beyond the call of duty in the Massacre of Lockport."

It wasn't called that by the Akorosi, of course. Officially, it was known as the "Pacification of Lockport," as if a bunch of women, children, and old people with mutated internal organs were in any position to put up resistance.

Sawbones's voice went hard. "Some might even accuse her of genocide."

Experimentally, I confided, "My mother's family lived in Lockport." They'd all survived, of course, safe within the enclave of Imperial loyalists. But Sawbones didn't need to know that. "Did you have family there?"

"Yes," he replied shortly, jaw tight. His tone ended that line of questioning. Straightening, he nodded at me professionally. "You're all set, miss. Try to refrain from strenuous physical activity for the next week."

"I will."

He looked entirely unconvinced by that promise.

* * *

"Glass!" called Bazso when I returned to the common room. "Do you have a moment?"

Squashing my annoyance with the Lampblacks for broadcasting my involvement in the murder of an Imperial general, I stalked over and threw myself down across from him. "Did you need something?" My voice was cool.

He studied me for a moment and wisely concluded that I was displeased with him. "Is everything all right?"

Was everything all right? I'd _told_ him that someone was hunting me, hadn't I, the night I saw _him_ outside the Iruvian Consulate? You'd think Bazso would have sewn shut his gang's loose lips, not encouraged them.

"Yes," I said shortly, in the same tone Sawbones had used when I asked about his family.

Bazso gave me one of his _looks_, reminding me that no matter how I spoke to him in private, he couldn't tolerate open disrespect in public, especially not in front of his gang.

Forcing down my anger, I closed my eyes briefly, counted to ten in Hadrathi and Akorosian, and then smiled ruefully. "I'm sorry, Bazso. I had an…unsettling encounter recently."

More than one, in fact. _Him_, of course, and the Golden Stag made manifest in Helene, and every single interaction with Faith, when I stopped to think about it.

"Did you need something?" I asked. After all, he was still wearing his hat.

"Hmmm?" He looked startled. "Oh, no, nothing in particular. Sit with me. You haven't been around lately. I thought it might do the gang some good to see you." He nodded at the Lampblacks, half of whom were gawking openly, the other half of whom were eagerly repeating increasingly exaggerated accounts of Ronia Helker's demise. Pickett stalked into the common room through the kitchen, caught sight of me with her boss, and scowled. At least that much hadn't changed.

"Umm." I didn't like the publicity, but an order was an order. "I'd be happy to."

Bazso's smile was warm and oddly sympathetic, as if he knew exactly what was going through my head. "Come to this side." He rose and ushered me onto his bench, then sat down again, effectively penning me in.

Pickett's nostrils flared, and her lips compressed into a thin line. "I have matters to discuss," she snapped at Bazso.

"Have a seat then," he replied pleasantly.

She glared pointedly in my direction.

"Glass wouldn't dream of repeating anything we discuss here, would you, Glass?"

I met his gaze. "Never."

"Good. Have a seat, Pickett."

She snorted but obeyed, flinging herself onto the bench with enough force to rattle the booth. He pretended not to notice.

Propping my chin on my hands, I thought of the first time I'd sat in that spot.

* * *

Two years ago.

The bloodstained office in the abandoned coal warehouse.

After the blue-eyed man, the one named Bazso, ended the interrogation, I must have fainted. I woke to an insistent pressure in my ribs – significantly harder than a nudge, a touch lighter than a kick.

Opening my eyes, I looked up a very long way into the face of the head interrogator, Pickett. "Go on," she snapped. "Get out."

Someone – probably the Sawbones that Bazso had mentioned – had already swathed me in bandages. Grandfather lay majestically across the desk, as it had throughout the torture, and my shabby little knapsack huddled next to it like an abused dog.

"Out," repeated Pickett.

Somehow, I dragged myself to my feet, collected my belongings, and staggered out of the warehouse – right into a freezing rain that stabbed into my wounds like thousands of stilettos. With absolutely no idea where I was, I picked a random direction and half-stumbled, half-crawled along the street, searching for shelter. At length, I came across a flophouse, handed over an exorbitant amount of slugs for a bed, and collapsed in a feverish haze.

Before me rose the black crystal spire of Ixis, clouds of smoke seething out of its facets, and Grandfather's voice insisted, _Child, you need to –_

Then the smoke vanished and _he_ bent over my bed, concern in his blue eyes, and he urged, "Signy, you can't – "

The blue eyes stayed, but the features around them wavered and transformed into those of the thug with the silk top hat. He was saying to someone I couldn't see, "Can we move her?"

A different face materialized, wrinkled and weather-beaten, assessing me like an onion in the market. "Maybe in another day – "

And then I was falling – falling – falling –

When I woke again, I was in a tiny room, empty but for the bare necessities. Slowly, moving only my eyeballs, I surveyed the iron frame at the foot of my bed, the chipped washstand, and the small writing desk under a window with crooked shutters. This didn't look like the flophouse. At least, I didn't think it did.

An old lady bustled in and said briskly, "Good, you're awake, dearie. I'll send word to Bazso."

Bazso. A vague memory stirred. That was what the head interrogator had called her boss, wasn't it? The man who'd believed me at last when I said I wasn't a red sash, and told me to buy new clothing?

"Where – where am I?" I croaked. It must have come out in either Hadrathi or Skovlander, because she frowned and shook her head. I tried again, making sure to speak Akorosian this time.

"You're in my boardinghouse," she replied. "I'm Madame Bell."

I didn't think that was the name of the woman I'd spoken to – or more likely, slurred at – the night I escaped the gang's clutches. "Why – how – "

She shrugged. "For the 'how,' the Lampblacks brought you here. As for the 'why,' Bazso has his reasons."

I couldn't imagine what they might be. My head was too fuzzy. As I sank back into blackness, I thought I heard Madame Bell saying, "Not today, she's still too sick…."

* * *

It took another few days before I was strong enough to wobble over to the tavern where Madame Bell told me I could find a certain Bazso Baz, head of the Lampblacks. According to her, they were one of the three main gangs in this district, which she called Crow's Foot. (Had I heard her wrong? Why would anyone name a geographical location after an anatomical part of a bird?) The other two gangs were the aptly named Crows, who were led by Lyssa, and an Iruvian gang known as the Red Sashes (now the interrogation made more sense), who were controlled by Mylera Klev (not a name I recognized, to my relief).

A small group of thugs in black overcoats lazed about outside the Leaky Bucket (what a name for a tavern!). As I tottered towards the door, they stiffened and scanned me up and down. Despite Bazso Baz's largess, I was still wearing my ragged Iruvian tunic and leggings. All my reserves had gone towards paying for the room and medicines, and even if they hadn't, I lacked the energy for shopping.

"What do you want?" one thug sneered. "We don't want your kind hanging around here."

Which was pretty rich, considering our relative socioeconomic backgrounds and education levels.

"Mr. Bazso Baz requested my presence," I said politely. "Please inform him that I have arrived."

The thug scowled. "Why would Bazso want to – "

Another thug elbowed her. "Bazso said to look out for a blonde girl, remember?"

The first complained in a surly tone, "He didn't say nothing about an _Iruvian_."

The second shrugged. "Stay out here," he ordered both of us. "I'll check."

Within moments, he returned to escort me into the tavern, past a bunch of rough-looking men and women, also in black overcoats – I made a mental note, guessing it was their uniform – all the way to a booth in the corner of the common room. A large, sturdy man with light brown hair and blue eyes the exact same shade as _his _rose from his seat when we approached. His smile of welcome faded very slightly when he registered my attire.

"Please, miss, have a seat," he invited. "Whip, you may go."

Bazso Baz waited until I'd lowered myself stiffly onto the hard wooden bench before sitting down himself. I gave him points for good manners – then deducted a few for his choice of doormen.

"What would you like to drink, miss?" he inquired politely.

Folding my hands demurely in my lap, I matched his courtesy. "Whatever you're having, sir."

Amused at something only he understood, he arched an eyebrow. "Indeed." Flagging down a passing barmaid, he ordered, "Tell Mardin two shots of whiskey."

When the glasses arrived, he slid one across the table to me. Oddly enough, he lifted the other reverently towards an empty glass on the side of the table before toasting me. "To good health."

I raised mine in return. "To good health," I echoed, and waited for him to drink first.

He inhaled deeply and took a sip, rolling it around in his mouth while studying me closely. So he was testing whether I appreciated fine Skovlander liquor, was he? While it wasn't exactly the national drink of Iruvia, Father had acquired a taste for it in Lockport, and Mother imported it by the cask from Skovlan. I'd watched them drinking it often enough to know how it was done.

Holding up my glass, I took my time admiring the rich amber hue and the way the electroplasmic lights glinted through the liquid. Then I stuck my nose into the glass and sniffed a few times with my eyes shut. Finally, I took a careful sip, swishing it around my mouth and trying to identify the flavors. As far as I could tell, it tasted like the whiskey my parents served the night _he_ was promoted.

"Smoky, with notes of sea brine," I pronounced, sounding as authoritative as I knew how. "Probably from one of the distilleries in northern Skovlan. Islay Finlaggan?" I hazarded a guess, based on the labels I'd seen at home.

Bazso Baz's eyebrows went way up. Apparently he hadn't expected a girl in Iruvian clothing to know this much about the national drink of Skovlan. "Islay Birnie, actually, but not bad," he remarked. "What do you think of the vintage?"

His condescension irked me. "Not bad," I replied in exactly the same tone.

At the tables around us, the black-overcoated thugs went dead quiet. A barmaid froze in the middle of setting down a tray of beer mugs. Silence rippled out across the tavern until even the bartender stopped polishing his glasses and straightened up. Bazso Baz's eyes caught mine and held for a long, tense moment. Chin up, I stared right back.

Then he burst into laughter. "I like you," he pronounced, and the common room sagged in relief. Chatter and the clink of mugs erupted around us once again. "Miss – what should I call you?"

I noted the phrasing. Not "what is your name," but "what should I call you," as if he expected an alias. Ever since I'd fled U'Duasha, I'd been going by my old wet nurse's name, but I could use that as my "real name" here in Doskvol. Which meant I needed a different street name. But what?

Sipping his drink, the gang leader waited patiently.

My eyes fell on the glass of whiskey in his hand. "Glass," I told him. "You can call me Glass."

He followed my gaze and smiled wryly. "Glass it is, then," he agreed. "So, Miss Glass, I have a job for you…."


	25. Lessons

Just under two years ago.

The front gates of what was once an elegant mansion. But soot and neglect had long since turned the pale marble façade ink black, and thugs with red silk sashes defaced the garden by their very presence.

Observing quietly from the shadows, I adjusted Grandfather so its embossed and jeweled hilt drew attention away from my tattered tunic, took a deep breath, threw back my shoulders, and stormed into the Red Sash Sword Academy.

"Miss! This is private property!"

A few red-sashed thugs tried to intercept me.

Brushing them off, I strode past as if they were beneath my notice. Which they were. I outranked all of them. "Where is Mylera Klev?" I shouted in aristocratic Hadrathi as I flung open the front door and marched into the foyer. "I demand to speak to Mylera Klev right this instant!"

Another red-sashed thug tried to stop me, but I froze him with a haughty glare. When he took in the craftsmanship of Grandfather's hilt, he blanched under his dark bronze skin. "Lady," he stammered, "Mylera is busy…."

"Not for this, she isn't," I snapped. "Take me to her right away!"

Bowing as Iruvians did to high nobility, he led me up a red-carpeted staircase, down a hallway over a series of Iruvian rugs (of reasonable quality), and stopped before a polished oak door. He rapped tentatively.

An imperious voice called, "Enter!"

Opening the door a crack, he cast a nervous glance at me. "Lady, if you would wait here – "

I didn't let him finish. Shouldering past, I threw the door open with so much force that it ricocheted off the wall. An Iruvian woman in her mid-thirties who matched Bazso Baz's description glared daggers at me across her massive teakwood desk. "Young lady – " she began sternly in the same aristocratic accent.

Oh gods. I recognized that proud, arched nose. I'd seen it on any number of her cousins, uncles, aunts, and what-have-you's in U'Duasha.

This "Mylera Klev" was a scion of House Ankhayat.

My courage very nearly failed me, and I missed a step, but then Grandfather's scabbard banged into my calf hard enough to bruise. Practically leaping the rest of the way across the office, I slammed a leather pouch of slugs down on her desk.

"There!" I snarled. "_That's_ what he offered me to spy on you. It's an outrage!"

Tearing open the drawstrings, I upended the pouch. Small silver coins, stamped with the profile of the Immortal Emperor on one side and a lightning tower on the other, clattered and bounced all over Mylera Klev's papers. (I skimmed them rapidly, forming an impression of reminders scribbled in Hadrathi and Akorosian shorthand, the opening of a letter to an Inspector Clermont, a list of numbers under the heading "The Dreaming Rose.")

At the sight of the slugs, the gang leader's face froze, and her dark brown eyes hardened the way Father's might have. "That is what _who_ offered you to spy on me?"

Without waiting for an invitation – since I didn't recognize her personally, I almost certainly outranked her as well – I threw myself into one of the upholstered chairs in front of her desk and crossed my arms. "Bazso Baz of the Lampblacks. Who else?"

She picked up a slug and rolled it through her long fingers, then pinched it between thumb and forefinger like something filthy and fastidiously dropped it into the pouch. Her hands were scarred and calloused in the manner of sword masters. "Elaborate."

Still playing the gently-bred lady driven mad by gross incivility, I growled, "I set one foot in this godsforsaken city – one foot! – and what happens? A gang of goons in black overcoats kidnaps me, _tortures_ me, and then turns around and recruits me to spy on my own countrymen for a mere pittance! I have never been so insulted in my life!"

Slugs plinked into the pouch one by one. Without even glancing down, Mylera Klev plucked them up while scrutinizing my features, noting the blend of Iruvian and Skovlander. Then her eyes dropped to the hilt by my side. When recognition dawned, I knew I'd won half the battle. Relaxing deliberately, she scoffed, "Bazso wouldn't recognize a camel if it spat in his face." (It was an ancient Iruvian saying. No one knew what a camel was or why it spat.)

Taking a gamble, I lifted my chin and stared at her challengingly. "Would _you_?"

Her lips peeled back in a grimace. "Yes. I believe I would." Releasing the last slug, she pulled the drawstrings taut and tied them neatly, her eyes never leaving mine. "A valuable asset indeed. A daughter of House – oh, but they wouldn't allow you to use the name, would they?" The pouch landed in front of me with a _plop_. "The same amount, but you work for _me_."

I feigned outrage. "I thought you recognized my worth."

Smoothly, she replied, "I'm sure you'll agree that a carpet woven by Nahjan craftsmen on their own time isn't worth as much as one woven by the same craftsmen but with the Nahjan name attached." Then she gave me a sardonic grin and spread her hands in mock helplessness.

"How _dare _you – " I clenched my fists until my nails dug into my flesh, but I managed to choke back the rest of that sentence.

Mylera Klev's eyes bored into mine. "_I_ am the head of the Red Sashes," she said in a hard tone. "_You_ are the nobody who had the temerity to barge into my office, address me in an outrageously disrespectful manner, _and_ confess to spying for the Lampblacks."

If only she knew who I was!

Father's voice drifted through my mind. _You are too proud, daughter. Pride has no place in our line of work. All it will do is reduce your effectiveness and get you killed._

Well, pride hadn't gotten me killed yet, but it _had_ brought me to this hovel of a city, with its ridiculously named districts and asinine gang leaders – which might be roughly equivalent.

Even though it took every bit of self-control I had, I bit my lip as if mortified by my own impudence, then bobbed my head without meeting her gaze. "I see." Hating myself for it, I mumbled, "I'm sorry."

Satisfied by that show of meekness, Mylera Klev counted out the exact same number of slugs that Bazso Baz had paid me and knotted them into a piece of brightly printed Iruvian cotton. With a graceful gesture, she set the little bundle next to the pouch. Then she pulled out her ledger and poised a fountain pen over it. "What shall I put you down as?"

"Glass," I said. "My name is Glass."

* * *

"Oh, Glass! Come help me demonstrate this move!"

Catching sight of me in the doorway of her advanced class, Mylera waved me over.

After covertly observing me brood through Pickett's report followed by Henner's, Bazso had despaired of extracting meaningful companionship and released me, although he did make me promise to visit his townhouse that evening to explain why I was so upset. I'd wandered aimlessly through Crow's Foot until my footsteps led me to the sword academy.

"What are you teaching today?" I asked Mylera. I picked up a practice sword from the rack and prowled to the front of the class.

"Misdirection." She smirked, dark eyes glinting with mischief. "That should be right up your alley."

I just rolled my eyes.

Teaching always relaxed Mylera – she really did make an excellent headmistress – and after class, we took turns at the water fountain, chatting companionably about our students. I took a chance and slipped in the casual remark, "Oh, by the way, he said he'd think about it."

Mylera was not deceived. "_Who_ said he'd think about _what_?"

"Let's go somewhere quiet," I suggested, putting a hand on her arm and tugging her up the stairs.

In the privacy of her office, she flopped into her chair and warned, "This better not be about the Lampblacks. Glass, in case you've forgotten, we're at _war_."

Well, yes, that was the entire problem.

"But that was _before_. Now there's a third party taking advantage of the, um, disarray in the district," I argued. "Singly, neither of you can take on the Hive, but together – together you can push it out."

Folding her arms, Mylera glared mulishly at me, acting so much like my brother in a sulk that I nearly laughed out loud.

"You need more allies. I suppose you _could_ talk to the Crows," I proposed with a shrug. "I'll investigate their current alliances and internal politics."

Much like Bazso, Mylera excelled at compacting all her thoughts into one expressive _look_.

"You want me to ally with _Lyssa_," she stated flatly. "I have _standards_."

Leaning forward and dropping the nonchalance, I told her in a flat tone of my own, "It's Lyssa or Bazso: Take your pick." When she didn't respond, I pushed harder. "Mylera, you hired me to give you information and analyses."

She still didn't say anything.

I allowed a note of irritation to creep into my voice. "Why bother hiring me as an agent if you're not going to listen to me?"

That roused her at last. Eyes flashing, she pointed out, "I hire you to give me _information_."

"What use is accurate information without accurate _interpretation_?" I asked persuasively. "A good agent provides you with not only the facts but also their context."

She tipped her head to a side and glowered at me.

"Here are the facts." I held up a finger. "One: The Hive has been interfering with Lampblack shipments at the docks." I held up another finger. "Two: Your other agents have reported an increase in the number of crates marked with the Hive's symbol at the docks."

"I do know how to count, Glass." Mylera sounded peeved, but not offended, so I ignored her.

"Three: A docker captured by the Lampblacks has confessed that the Hive is expanding into the Docks, with the intention of either pushing you and the Lampblacks out, or making both of you pay for access."

Mylera's expression sharpened at my use of "you" instead of "us," a mistake I couldn't seem to stop making around her.

I rushed on to distract her from pronoun usage and its implications. "And four: The Hive is run by wealthy, _legitimate_ merchants. Those are the facts. Now here is the only logical conclusion: The Hive has devoted to this operation a massive treasury, political connections, and other assets we can't hope to match. On our own. However, if we pool our resources with the Lampblacks, we can expel the Hive from _our_ district," I concluded forcefully.

Somewhat to her own surprise, Mylera found herself considering my advice. Tapping her long fingers thoughtfully on her ledger, she asked abruptly, "He said he'd think about it as in he'd think about it, or he just wanted you to stop talking about it?"

More like the latter. I avoided a direct answer. "Bazso is a very practical person."

Experienced gang leader and teacher that she was, she caught the evasion, of course. Rising majestically, she flowed to her window, leaned against the frame, and stared out at the dark clouds hovering over the skyline. After I'd waited for a good five minutes, I cautiously moved around her desk (scanning her papers in the process) and made us both coffee. When I proffered a cup, she accepted it absentmindedly and sipped in silence.

At last, she addressed the skeletal trees across the canal. "I suppose a truce can't hurt. I will speak to my lieutenants."

"_Thank _you." I startled both of us by hugging her quickly around the shoulders.

Maybe Faith was rubbing off on me too.

* * *

When I returned to the railcar, I found Ash trying to convince Faith to teach him how to attune to the ghost field.

"Oh, the power of being a great witch!" sighed our resident great witch, hands clasped in front of her ruffly pink skirt, eyes lifted dramatically ceiling-ward. "To have ghosts and gods at my beck and call!"

Half-skeptical, half-hopeful, Ash exclaimed, "Even the _gods_ obey you?"

"When you attune to the ghost field, you manipulate cosmic energies and command spirits!" Adopting a severe air, Faith pursed her lips like a sour old governess and pronounced solemnly, "It takes a sharp mind and decades of study to become a good Whisper. Do you have what it takes?"

Ash gestured at his stack of notebooks on the table. "I'm a good student," he replied without false modesty. "How long have _you_ studied?"

Faith flung wide her arms, encompassing her decades and decades of education. "Since I was but a thought in my father's eye!"

Ash tried a different tack. "Are there books I can read on my own?" he asked hopefully.

Faith swung her head sorrowfully from side to side. "Books, books, books. What good are books to the neophyte? We must begin at the beginning – with the magnificent art of meditation!"

She walked him through the basics, waited until he was seated on the floor with his legs crossed and eyes shut – and then smacked him on the back of the head.

His eyes flew open.

"Did you feel that?" she inquired innocently.

"Yes!"

"Ah," she proclaimed sagaciously. "Then you are getting attuned."

Rubbing the back of his head, Ash complained, "Can't I use someone else's memories to learn?"

"There are some things you can only learn through practice and from a wise mentor," Faith explained wisely. "Now return to your exercises, young tyro."

With a dubious expression, Ash closed his eyes again.

_Whack_.

"Ow! Stop it!"

Ash raised an arm to ward off further blows, the movement exposing a flask peeking out of one pocket. Inside sparkled the golden motes that he'd harvested from the Stag. At the sight, the oddest expression crossed Faith's face – the unique look of one experiencing a sensation somewhere between an unscratchable itch and a stabbing pain.

Pointing an imperious forefinger at him, she commanded, "Return to your exercises, young novice! Do not surrender to sensations of the flesh until you can meditate for fifteen minutes."

Hands plonked on hips, she loomed over him and monitored him until he sank into a genuine trance. Then she tiptoed backwards into the hallway, whirled, and ducked into his compartment. Books and clothing flew every which way as she rummaged gleefully through his belongings.

Leaning against the doorframe, I inquired casually, "Anything interesting?"

"Nooooooo," she sighed, incurably crestfallen. "It's all so booooooring." She tossed a notebook in my direction before scooting on her belly under his desk.

In my hands, the notebook fell open to a page of scribbles about reverse-engineering some sort of ritual. Possessing neither an understanding of the ghost field nor a desire to learn from Faith, I couldn't make any sense of Ash's ramblings.

A loud squeal made me jerk in surprise. "Heeeeeelp!"

Faith had tumbled headfirst into a large trunk. Her stockinged legs waved like tree branches in a gale.

Shrugging, I closed the notebook and laid it on top of Ash's desk. "I'll leave you to it, then. Happy hunting."


	26. Sacrifices

One possible interpretation of Ash's notes presented itself shortly thereafter, when the author himself sought out Faith and me.

"It meant a lot to me that you helped with the Helene score," he said earnestly. "I hope – "

"Of course it does," interjected Faith. "Who wouldn't appreciate the help of a great Whisper like me?"

Ash waited her out, then continued, "I hope you'll forgive me for going easy on Irimina instead of wringing every last coin out of her. She needs some money to grow her investments." _And continue to employ us_, he implied.

I shrugged. Finance was his area of expertise, not mine, and anyway, crew coin had already overrun a motley assortment of iron chests and now threatened to commandeer an entire compartment. "That's fine. I assume you ran the calculations."

"I did," he assured us, as if we required reassurance. "You know, with Tess funneling six coin to us every week, we should really invest in a vault…." His voice trailed off as he indulged in a reverie of bank vault doors and locks.

"Or a bigger closet." Faith slashed through his daydream, eliciting a little jump and startled stare. She winked at him. "Then you wouldn't have to dump your clothing on every available surface. Fabric wrinkles, you know, and ironing is such a pain. And while you're at it, you should get a bookcase too. It's slovenly to toss your books all over the floor like that. As your erudite, enlightened educator, I really must object to your poor study habits."

I choked back a snicker, remembering the sight of said erudite, enlightened educator upside down in his trunk.

Looking from one of us to the other, Ash visibly suppressed a sigh before he veered determinedly onto a different topic. He mused, "There are many gods and they make good allies. I intend to go gloat over the Golden Stag – make it clear to him what I did and why. Did the two of you want to come?"

Flicking open my pocket knife and checking its blade, I feigned indifference. "Should be interesting."

Faith, however, shook her head mournfully. "I'm afraid I have to decline. Gloating is bad for my complexion," she explained with a woebegone expression. Whipping a hand mirror out of a pocket, she ostentatiously examined her cheeks, patting and smoothing the rosy skin.

After nearly two months of sharing a railcar with us, Ash looked entirely unsurprised by our respective reactions. Conversationally, he inquired, "Isha, have you met Ilacille? She's the priestess at the Temple to the Forgotten Gods."

Was this a test? I couldn't read his body language, so with perfect honesty, I answered, "No." After all, no one had ever introduced the two of us. I'd only ever spied on her.

"Ah." Ash didn't seem to care about my response one way or the other. "Well, you should."

He soon remedied this deficiency by inviting both Ilacille and me to witness his sacrificial ritual at the former Silver Stag Casino, emblem of his greatest triumph on behalf of That Which Hungers. On the appointed day, he and I walked to Nightmarket together, Ash chatting with – or rather, at – me about theology while I eyed his bottle of golden motes and wondered why they made Faith so jumpy. All I could sense was a rich, warm glow.

Ash's voice cut through my thoughts. "What do you think of the gods, Isha?"

With an effort, I dragged my attention away from the motes. "I _haven't_ thought about them." Growing up in U'Duasha, I'd been much more concerned about demons, both the occult and human varieties – and particularly the ones within my own family.

"But don't you think it's weird that the gods aren't here?" persisted Ash.

"Why would they be?" I pointed out. "Aren't they busy with – " What did gods do anyway? Presumably not what demons did, _i.e._ corrupt humankind via sweet, insidious lies. "God stuff?" I finished lamely.

"No, no, the gods derive power from human worship," Ash explained. "If I were one, I would be here, among all my followers. So that begs the question: Why don't we have a god emperor?"

At his words, so deceptively naïve, I suppressed a shudder. In U'Duasha, the Demon Princes issued commands from their black crystal spires, their supposed prisons doing little to contain or even filter their treachery. Perhaps – not being a demon – a god would do better, but that wasn't something I wanted to test. "I don't know," I replied, humoring Ash. "That _would_ make sense."

When we arrived at the Orchid Salon, Ilacille was already waiting outside the front entrance, hands clasped serenely in front of her, inclining her head graciously to the bemused patrons who flowed in and out of the casino. Ash performed the requisite introductions and led us into the building, which – as Irimina had threatened – now resembled a cross between a scene from a lurid romance novel and a hallucination induced by Black Lotus abuse. Exotic flowers bloomed everywhere, painted onto doors, woven into rugs, erupting from Iruvian vases, and blazing on silk scroll paintings that unfurled down the height of the walls. Stylized orchids had been carved into the legs of Helene's gambling tables and chairs, and floral mosaics blossomed on the panels of the bar. Ash, who'd helped supervise the remodeling (and hence bore part of the blame for the décor), led us over a particularly gaudy rug, whose clashing colors stabbed my eyeballs, and up a set of back stairs to the cupola, which had blessedly been left undefiled. Its arched windows offered an excellent view of the peeling paint on neighboring walls.

While Ash and Ilacille set up the ritual, I drifted around the small space, examining the locks on the windows and determining – as a theoretical exercise only – how to break in from the roof.

"Will you participate?" Ash was asking the priestess.

"I'm here to observe only," she reminded him.

"Isha." Ash called me to attention. "I'm about to start."

I shut a window and latched it, noting the squeak of unoiled hinges. "What do you need me to do?"

"I'll have you read something in a bit. For the first part, just stand beside Ilacille and witness."

That I was very good at.

Positioning himself in the dead center of the cupola, Ash produced a crude porcelain stag from a sack. Raising it high above his head in both hands, he closed his eyes for a moment, then dashed it to the floor in one quick movement. The stag shattered, shards skittering everywhere. (I hastily backed up a step. Ilacille calmly swept her hem out of the way.) Over the sad little fragments, Ash poured the golden motes in a steady stream, and they flickered like fireflies before winking out and vanishing. A sense of vast, insatiable hunger began to rise in the cupola, devouring all available space and air.

"Read this." Ash handed me a sheet of paper covered in his tidy handwriting.

Dragging air into my lungs, I forced myself to recite a list of assets that he had bequeathed to That Which Hungers. He had encoded the words and numbers in a cryptically occult way, and just shaping my lips to form the syllables took incredible effort. Sweat beaded on my forehead and the sheet of paper trembled in my hand, and I felt oppressed and somehow _compressed_.

Ash listened with his eyes closed, body swaying slightly to the rhythm of my words. At the end, he completed the litany: "Asset: Ashlyn Slane. Value: One life. Expected return on investment: Services."

As soon as those words left his lips, his eyes rolled up and he collapsed.

As if she'd expected it, Ilacille caught him before he could topple face first into the porcelain shards and lowered him gently to a clear patch of floor. Looking up at me, she said, "I don't know the precise nature of your relationship with Ashlyn Slane. It may be a while before he wakes. Either you or I can sit with him."

"I'll stay," I said immediately. I wanted intelligence on his operations, he'd asked me to come and, well, it seemed only fair to repay him for all the times he'd stayed behind at the crime scene to cover for me and Faith.

The priestess floated downstairs, returned shortly with a tray of food and drink, and left again for good. Sitting cross-legged with Ash's head cushioned in my lap, I witnessed and waited.

After a few minutes, his eyes began to roll agitatedly under his eyelids. A hollow, hungry voice boomed out of thin air: "So you offer yourself to me."

Although Ash's lips didn't move, I heard his passionate reply. "Yes. There is so much power to be had in the city and the world. You are one of the paths to power."

The ravenous voice mused, "Yes, I have noticed your efforts on my behalf of late. So you seek power."

"I seek power in the city. There are so many wrongs. Things are not proceeding as they should. I want control."

"And you offer yourself completely and wholly?"

Sounding more like himself, Ash hedged, "I align my will with you freely."

A pause, a sense of _tasting. _"You will be devoured in the end – you _do_ understand?"

In a stronger voice, Ash said, "Aren't we all, in the end? Far better to be devoured by something powerful."

"Good then. Open your mind."

And Ash screamed.

His eyes flew open, staring sightlessly. For an eternity, his body convulsed and writhed while I fought to keep him from bashing his skull open on the floor.

Then, just as suddenly, he went limp as a rag doll. His eyelids fluttered but did not open, his breath came in shallow gasps, and he whimpered softly from time to time.

After several hours without change, I hired a cabbie to drive us back to the Old Rail Yard and, with Faith's help, maneuvered him into his bunk bed. Two days later, he finally emerged from his compartment, shaky and pale, but with a new hungriness in his eyes.

Oh, and pink ribbons in his hair.

Catching sight of me reading in the common room, he lowered himself heavily into a chair. "Thank you, Isha. This means a lot to me."

I couldn't quite bring myself to tell him he was welcome. "It was certainly educational," I said instead.

Heaving himself back to his feet, he said briskly, "Well, there are lots of things to do," and, before I could stop him, staggered out of the railcar.

* * *

Somewhere in the middle of experimenting with hair ribbons of different shades of pink on Ash, Faith had made time for a trip to the Sensorium. There, she stunned Madame Keitel (and my archivist) by asking for a memory of a pleasant day at a spa.

Madame Keitel retrieved a memory of a perfectly normal spa trip with back massages, mud on the face, rose petals in the pool, the standard package. "I have more interesting ones if you're bored to death," she told Faith dubiously, who only smiled and took the memory to her private room.

She was back the next day.

"That memory was so booooooring!" she cried (so loudly that the archivist could hear her from the next room). "It was so boring that I want _all_ memories of _all_ spas _purged_ from my mind! How could you let me _suffer_ like that?"

Drily, Madame Keitel reminded her, "As I recall, I did warn you, old friend."

Faith's pout was practically audible. "Isn't it your role to save me from my own vices?"

The proprietress of the Sensorium, one of Doskvol's premier vice purveyors, didn't even bother to answer that question. Matter of factly, she addressed the real issue. "I _can_ remove all your memories of spas, but I'm beginning to worry. I've removed more memories from you than anyone alive. There may be consequences…." She paused for a moment, as if waiting for Faith's response. When there was only silence, Madame Keitel sighed heavily. "Or we can damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead."

Faith's voice contained only sweetness and light. "Damn the torpedoes. I'm like no one you know."

Fondly, Madame Keitel agreed. "You're certainly like no one else I know."

And she removed the memories. My archivist caught a glimpse of her slipping the vial into her pocket as she left for the day.

* * *

After two months of searching, I still hadn't found _him_, and my increasing preoccupation was beginning to irritate Bazso and pique Mylera's curiosity, neither of which spelled longevity or (good) health for me. I did seriously consider asking Bazso for help, but in the end I concluded regretfully that I couldn't risk it, not when I was so close to brokering a truce between him and Mylera. I thought – I _hoped_ – that he'd understand what I had done and why, but I couldn't be sure.

In the end, I saw no other option but to confess to my crewmates.

"I've been looking for someone," I began tentatively. "It occurs to me that you can help."

Part of me expected Faith to demand how much I intended to pay for her time and services, which, as she'd told Irimina, didn't come cheap. An even larger part of me expected Ash not to hear my request. Lately, he'd been poring over the financial ledgers of assorted government offices and, when he wasn't, haranguing anyone who stood still long enough to listen about how the Church of Ecstasy was an even bigger drain on the city's resources than he'd realized. (Sleipnir had proven a more satisfactory audience than either Faith or me.)

However, at my words, Ash immediately snapped shut his tome and pushed back his chair from the dining table. All business, he asked, "Who is it? Describe them, please."

Faith merely tipped her head to a side, an expression of pure mischief on her face.

I was having second thoughts already. "He looks Skovlander – " well, as much as I did, anyway – "and has blond hair and blue eyes. He's tall and slender." Which narrowed the hunt down to about half of the male population of Skovlan. Any number of Lampblacks answered to that description.

As testy as a schoolmaster, Ash prompted, "Is there anything more _specific_?"

Even more reluctantly, I divulged, "There's something about the shape of his eyes and cheekbones that makes him look slightly Iruvian from certain angles."

Faith's own eyes lit up, and she made a production of scrutinizing my eyes and cheekbones.

"He's looking for an Iruvian sword that he claims was stolen. Also, he's good at disguises." I thought that covered all the important points. _He_ certainly wouldn't travel under his real name, and I hadn't exactly packed any photos when I fled.

In a flash, Ash's face contorted with greed. Leaping to his feet, he slammed a hand on the table so hard that the legs creaked and shouted, "I want that sword! Tell me more about the sword!"

Caught off guard, I jumped. "That's all I know," I snapped, suppressing a guilty glance in the direction of my compartment.

Ash, of course, detected the blatant lie, and his eyes narrowed.

"My sources didn't tell me anything else," I said defensively (and truthfully). "The point is that the sword is _lost_." Something – I didn't know what – made me add acerbically, "And if he were supposed to have it, he wouldn't have lost it in the first place."

Ash calmed down ever so slightly, but then blazed anew with zeal. "We can kill him and sacrifice him to That Which Hungers!"

"_No_!" My reaction was instinctive and much too vehement. "No," I repeated in a more measured tone. "Don't kill him."

He dismissed it with an unsatisfactory, "Well, fine, not immediately."

"_Not at all_," I wanted to say, but Faith was eyeing me with too curiosity for me to press the issue just then.

When she caught my glance, she winked. "I wouldn't worry. He will wind up in our web."

Somehow, it didn't sound very reassuring uttered in that impish voice.

"Uh, thanks. I appreciate it."

But she wasn't done yet. "My wide-eyed watch will catch this wicked wrongdoer," she declaimed, growing increasingly animated. Bouncing out of her chair, she flung wide her arms and struck a dramatic pose in the middle of the common room. "Neither wards nor wiles of that wight will wrest him from this witness!"

Wonderful.

* * *

Once I'd diverted Ash from the subject of swords and sacrifices, and scooted Faith away from her (admittedly impressive) mental dictionary, we divided up Brightstone and scoured it for signs of a tall, slender, blue-eyed, blond, part-Iruvian Skovlander in search of a stolen sword. With three of us searching, it was almost too easy.

_He_ and his charm had been working overtime, it seemed, because in the trendy shops on Goldcrest Avenue, among the stalls of the Silver Market, along the brightly-lit walks of Unity Park – basically, in all the places where stylish young ladies congregated to flaunt their cutting-edge toilettes – people were buzzing about a newly-arrived Skovlander nobleman. He was handsome, oh my dear, haven't you heard how handsome he is? Muscled, but in that lithe way of an upper-class sportsman – not bulging grotesquely like a docker or factory hand. And have you _seen_ his hair? It shines like spun gold – no, no, like _electrum_, darling. Gold is too common, too yellow. And his eyes – his voice – his impeccable manners….

But no one seemed to know where he was staying. The best we could do, based on the density of discussion, was to narrow it down to the northwestern part of Brightstone, near Bowmore Bridge.

At least I was getting closer, even if it looked like I might have to fight Ash for him.


	27. A Job on the Docks

At the end of the day, Ash and I met up in the Silver Market by a Dagger Isles spice stall to exchange notes on our progress towards tracking down _his _whereabouts. After scanning the open-air market suspiciously, Ash suggested, "Let's get out of here."

Not until we were several streets out of earshot of any merchants did he speak again. To my surprise, he didn't interrogate me further about the sword or the mysterious nobleman whom he _wasn't _allowed to sacrifice to That Which Hungers. Instead, he turned out to be preoccupied with an entirely different affair.

"Isha, what do you know of the Hive's activities at the Docks?"

"It's been trying to push the Red Sashes and Lampblacks out of the district," I replied warily, uncertain where he was going with this.

"That's what I've gathered as well."

"How?" I asked sharply.

"My sister, of course. How do you think? According to her, the Hive has been acquiring berthing capacity in the east end of the Docks, at an accelerated pace in the past month. She thinks they're planning something and warned us to avoid that area." He snorted at the very idea. "Come on, let's find out what they're up to."

"Why the sudden interest?" I probed cautiously. I knew why _I _cared about the Hive's activities in the district, but I couldn't begin to fathom why they mattered to Ash. After all, despite all his daydreaming, he _didn't_ own a leviathan hunter – or anything that needed berthing, for that matter. On top of that, we weren't hawkers, who required turf to sell our products, or smugglers, who needed to offload illegal goods.

"Because that's where leviathan blood comes in," he explained impatiently, as if it were patently obvious. "Leviathan blood is the lifeblood of the Imperium. If one were to interrupt the supply…." He trailed off dreamily.

I shuddered, imagining a gruesome death at the hands, so to speak, of horrors from the deathlands. "Are you feeling quite all right? You've been acting, well, _different_ ever since – " I searched my memories to figure out when it had begun – "ever since the spa."

Ever since the trauma of coming into direct contact with tendrils of the Golden Stag triggered a collapse. I was sure that his ritual up in the cupola of our ill-gotten casino hadn't helped his mental stability either.

In his normal crisp tone, Ash informed me, "I'm fine, Isha. But we need to think about our next score. After all, Irimina is going to have her hands full with the casino for a while, so it's uncertain that we can count on her. We need to be proactive about tracking down potential jobs. It's crucial to maintain a steady cash flow…."

And that was how we wound up in a squat waterfront tavern that was seedy even by Docks standards. Sullen dockers coated in tattoos nursed their ale and shot suspicious glares at us when we walked in, as if weighing whether to assault us immediately and without cause, or wait until they could claim plausible deniability. Predictably, they warmed up to us as soon as we bought them a round of drinks. Once they were sufficiently drunk, we orchestrated an impromptu chorale of work-songs and, under cover of an _a cappella_ performance of "What Can You Do with a Drunken Sailor?" (quite a lot, apparently), we chatted with them about the Docks. The western end, we learned, focused primarily on repairs, while the eastern end handled cargo of all sorts, including Ash's "lifeblood of the Imperium." As Tess had reported, the Hive had been buying up berthing capacity piecemeal so it wouldn't be obvious, and by now controlled almost enough space to take in a leviathan hunter.

"I guess the Hive wants to monopolize berthing in order to raise rates," concluded Ash, approving and envious at the same time.

Further investigation revealed that the Hive funneled all its activities through a single proxy, one merchant named Skannon Vale.

He sounded like a promising target – if we wanted to tangle with the Hive even more, that was.

* * *

Back in the railcar, we found Faith napping in her compartment, curled up on her side facing the wall. Putting a finger to his lips, Ash tiptoed up to her, silently lifted her gauzy bed curtains – and whacked her on the back of the head.

Faith jolted upright, saw that it was us, and immediately lay back down.

"That was most effective witch meditation," Ash smirked.

In response, she only yawned widely and stretched luxuriously. "Finally, my young novitiate, you are beginning to comprehend the grand mysteries of witchiness!"

While they bantered, I slipped over to her desk and perched on it, swinging my legs and taking an inventory of her belongings. Faith's green eyes slanted in my direction.

"Isha dear, do you mind straightening my pens while you're perusing my personal possessions?"

I gave her an injured look and left the pens where they lay.

Fidgeting, Ash told her, "We haven't heard from Irimina in a while. I know she's been busy with the casino, but I don't like going so long between scores. You're the closest to her. Can you go have tea with her and…." He trailed off meaningfully.

Faith half rose, eyes wide with betrayal. One hand clutched dramatically at her chest. "Why, Ash, the heart of my relationship with Irimina is not a crass, commercial one! I'm devastated, desolated, _disconsolate_ that you'd even suggest it!"

Ash waited a moment to see if she planned to test out any more alliterations. "Well," he proposed dubiously, "my mother _has_ hinted that she might want to hire us. She certainly won't be as generous as Irimina though…." He shook his head at the avarice of the Slane family. "Or I guess there's Nyryx. We can see if she has any enemies she wants _removed_ and sold back, like last time…."

I suppressed a shudder, remembering those screams and the terrible silence that followed. "No."

"That leaves only our back-up plan, then," Ash said, nodding at me. "Soliciting someone to hire us to assassinate Skannon Vale."

Lounging on her pillows, Faith recommended to her bed curtains, "I suggest putting out flyers. 'For a good time, send enemies to – '"

"How about Bazso or Mylera?" I asked quickly, cutting her off before she invented any crazy names for our crew. "I'm sure we can convince one or both of them to hire us to deal with the Docks."

"Why, Isha, are you implying that the nature of your relationship with Bazso Baz is a _transactional_ one?" I'd never known it was possible for a voice to _slither_, but Faith, as always, failed to disappoint.

Even when I wanted to be disappointed.

Especially then, perhaps.

Ash raised his own voice to drown her out. "I don't know Mylera, but I'm on good terms with Bazso."

"Ash! Ash!" Faith sounded appalled and delighted at the same time. "Are you condoning this? Are you actually going to _encourage_ her – "

Curtly, I said, "Bazso it is, then."

After all, I took his coin already – and had done so, in fact, from the very beginning.

* * *

After confronting Mylera Klev that first time, surviving the encounter, and accepting both her insult and her slugs, I slipped down the back stairs of the Red Sash Sword Academy and out a side gate, automatically registering the urchins who loitered on the edge of a small park. Placing a hand on Grandfather's hilt to deter any precocious pickpockets, I took what I thought might be a shortcut back to Madame Bell's boardinghouse but instead turned out to be an odyssey through a maze of narrow alleyways that all looked exactly the same. At last, I washed up at the foot of an ancient tower silhouetted against the bright white moon. Squinting up at its crumbling masonry, which was only mostly obscured by shadows, I could just make out figures in the upper windows, far enough into the rooms that they didn't provide easy targets for snipers. I wondered who those people might be, and what they used the tower for.

"Jumping ship to the Crows already?" asked a soft voice from the darkness, partly teasing, partly testing.

I jumped just the tiniest bit, before lowering my head deliberately to face my first employer. All I could make out in the late-afternoon darkness was his general shape – the outline of his overcoat, a stray gleam from the silk of his hat.

"Is that what they call themselves?" I asked coolly, as if the answer made no difference whatsoever.

The head of the Lampblacks detached himself from the shadows, approached me, and held out an arm. It took a moment for me to realize that he meant for me to take it.

It took another moment for me to decide to do so.

Resting my hand on it lightly, haughtily, I let him lead me away from the tower and back into the warren of alleys.

"You met with Mylera."

It was a statement, not a question. I did vaguely remember a couple of urchins pelting off when I passed. It wouldn't be out of the ordinary, I supposed, for a gang leader to plant spies around his rival's headquarters.

"Yes," I agreed, deliberately playing obtuse. "I did."

His voice betrayed a twinge of impatience. "And what happened?"

"I took her slugs – the same amount you paid me – to spy on you for her."

He stopped dead in the alley, his muscles going hard as steel beneath my fingers. "You did _what_?" he demanded. "You work for _her_ now? And you dare tell me this?"

With an effort, I left my hand where it was, curled gently around his arm. "Wouldn't you prefer to hear it from me than from someone else?" I inquired flippantly. Then, before he could knife me, I adopted an offended attitude. "Of course not. I work for _you_." I took a gamble. "Because you'll pay me more."

I could feel the very instant he chose to be amused instead of angry. "Will I?" he asked ironically, reminding me so much of _him _that a wave of homesickness struck me. "Then let me propose that we discuss the question of your wages over dinner."

"Of course," I replied smoothly. "It would be my pleasure to treat you. With Mylera Klev's money."

Throwing back his head so his hat tumbled off, he roared with laughter. "I like you, Glass," he proclaimed, as he had in the tavern.

The moonlight fell upon his face, and in it I read respect and liking – and perhaps something more. In return, I felt a tug of something in myself that might have been more than…interest of a transactional nature, as Faith would have put it.

He didn't invite me to his townhouse that night, nor did I ask him to return to the boardinghouse with me, but it didn't take long before I became a regular at his booth for reasons beyond pure commerce.

* * *

Speaking of matters of commerce, our crew entered the Leaky Bucket with considerable fanfare, thanks entirely to Faith, who never met a scoundrel she didn't want to bait. While she waved cheekily at Mardin and flounced over to kiss Sawbones on the cheek and winked at grizzled old Lampblacks who, to their own astonishment, found themselves blushing and removing their hats, Ash and I headed for Bazso's booth.

"We brought gifts!" Ash announced almost merrily, setting a basket on the table.

Faith materialized beside us. "Great, glorious, grandiferous gifts!" She paused, put a finger to her cheek, and tipped her head. "Oh, wait, that's not a real word."

"You brought gifts?" asked Bazso, looking a little bemused but playing along. "Please, have a seat, all of you. How are you doing?"

Ash slid onto the bench opposite him, bumped along by Faith and her giant skirt. Smoothing down my own, much-less-exuberant dress, I sat down demurely next to Bazso.

From the basket, Ash produced a bottle of expensive whiskey and a bundle of hot Tycherosi pastries. "We've been doing very well," he chattered rapid-fire (I would say so, if he dared brave Mardin's corkage fee). "Things have been busy lately, but we do have an opening in our schedule."

Parsing that hint correctly, Bazso raised an eyebrow. "Are you asking if I have someone I want you to kill?"

"That's a very blunt way of putting it," gasped Ash, looking taken aback.

"I'm a blunt man. But let me think about it." Leaning back and staring off into the distance for a few minutes, Bazso considered and rejected several options as either "handled" or "not worth your time."

In a low voice, too low for Pickett to hear from her booth, I reported, "We do have information about the Docks."

Ash rapidly followed up with: "What operations do you have there?"

Bazso gave him a hard stare, reminding him that he wasn't a Lampblack and that, even if he were, information about Lampblack business was parceled out on a need-to-know basis. When Ash looked sufficiently quelled, Bazso observed, "The Hive will take over the entire Docks. It's like the tide. No one knows where it comes from."

"From one point," I murmured.

Bazso stiffened.

But before he could speak, Faith happily launched into a fantastical tale of valiant knights stemming a tidal wave of enemies through resolution and steadfastness of purpose alone.

"There are three of you. Against the Hive." Bazso's face was impossible to read.

"And I volunteer two of us!" Faith assured him.

Bazso turned to me. "Tell me about the one point."

"His name is Skannon Vale," I said, still speaking quietly so no one else (i.e. Pickett) could hear. "If we remove him, we can…redistribute the Hive's assets."

Ash, with all the authority of his insider information, put in, "At the very least, we can disrupt and delay them. After all, no one person is in charge. I'm sure that as a gang member yourself, you know how it is – when there's an entire committee squabbling over decisions – "

In an icy voice, Bazso cut him off. "_I_ am in charge. Things work differently here."

That silenced Ash – and the rest of the Lampblacks around us. Pickett looked as if she'd kill me for foiling her eavesdropping attempts. _ One day_, warned her scowl, _one day, girl, you – or one of your friends – will go too far. And then –_

After a long, tense moment during which none of us dared breathe or twitch (except for Faith, who was mouthing poetry to herself), Bazso finally relaxed. Picking up the conversation as if the dominance display never happened, he agreed amiably, "It would be good to remove this individual – this Skannon Vale – if you keep both my and your names away. I can offer you six coin."

"Well," rambled Ash, sounding artless but observing him closely, "it _would_ be nice to pick up a small amount of turf. After all, we would like to work _with_ those around us…."

From Bazso's expression, I got the distinct impression that he did not enjoy the bargaining game as much as Irimina. "What do you want?" he asked point blank.

Ash looked offended by the direct approach but cut to the chase. "A warehouse would be nice. I do have quite a bit of stuff to store – " I suppressed a look of surprise, but not quite enough to fool Bazso – "and even though it's not particularly nice or valuable, a little space would go a long way…." He signed at me, _Help me out here, crewmate_.

Even though I had no idea why we wanted a warehouse anywhere, much less all the way across the city from our railcar, I dutifully stepped in. "How about that warehouse you used to control near Saltford's?" I suggested.

Bazso looked stunned – but not angered – by my participation in Ash's mad scheme. "I need my warehouses, Isha, for my stuff!"

Faith, who'd been staring off into space for the past few minutes, snapped back into the present long enough to say silkily, "If _I_ were in the habit of misplacing my warehouses, I would rather find all but one than none at all."

Shooting me an annoyed you-will-have-_words_-with-your-associate-later look, Bazso thought the matter over and finally conceded, "I can pay you six coin plus the warehouse if you pin the murder on Mylera."

Almost before he finished speaking, I was signaling frantically for Ash to reject the offer.

With a regretful sigh, Ash acquiesced. "Let's keep it purely financial for now," he said to Bazso. "Although knowing what turf was yours would help us proceed."

The head of the Lampblacks began to outline his "misplaced" territories, but at some point he thought better of it and told us, "Just take care of Skannon. My boys can handle the rest."

I happened to agree with that assessment. Matching his bluntness, I promised, "Leave him to us."

Across from me, Ash just shook his head.


	28. Skannon Vale

Since we were developing a reputation – in our own minds, at the very least – for assassinating our targets while they were indulging their vices, that was what we focused on while we researched Skannon Vale. Pretending to represent a wealthy client with a ship coming in, the three of us interviewed docker handlers, including all of those who used to own the offices that Vale usurped. We also requested character references from merchants who still found it more profitable to bring in goods by ship rather than by rail.

"Tidy and punctual" was how the docker handlers grudgingly described Vale – when they weren't cursing him for pricing them out of their properties.

"Possessed of a ruthless business sense" was how his fellow merchants admiringly portrayed him. Apparently the man had an uncanny talent for negotiations, offering just the right amount at just the right time.

They also told us that Vale lived in Charterhall, that his main office was located not too far from the university – and that he attended his local branch of the Church of Ecstasy religiously. Multiple times a week in fact. Not only was he a regular at Mass on the sixth day, but he never missed a single third-day Study, where devotees dissected the writings of the Immortal Emperor, founder and head of the Church.

"They read all about how death is final so we should enjoy life to the fullest!" explained Faith, blatantly contradicting what she'd told Irimina about the Church. ("You know, it's not for finding pleasures," she'd lamented over tea and biscuits.)

"Can we kill him at Study then?" I asked, thinking that maybe the eyewitnesses would be too absorbed in their books to notice assassins sneaking in.

With surprising authority, Faith declared, "It's smaller and more intimate, so it would be harder to infiltrate." Strikingly, she dispensed with her usual glibness.

"Killing him at Mass would be more public and more embarrassing for the Church anyway," commented Ash before I could pursue the matter.

Faith's eyes went all dreamy. "You know, the Church proposes Hollowification for true disciples. Since ghosts are unholy abominations, you should remove your own soul in order to purify yourself…." Snapping back to the present, she grinned at our stunned faces. "What better way to enjoy temporal life than without an unsanctified soul inside you?"

A horrified silence smothered the railcar.

"Are – are they still _sentient_?" I asked when I could speak again.

"Oh no, of course not! What would be the _point_?"

"I – I – " I didn't even know what to say.

Ash did. Slamming a fist on the table, he exploded, "That's a waste of a life's worth of education and the state's investment in its citizens!"

With exaggerated patience, Faith explained to the heathen, "That's why it demonstrates the utmost faith."

The heathen was unimpressed. "You can't make up something stupider!" he fumed.

She smiled a smile full of daggers. "Well, if I were to waste 'a life's worth of education and the state's investment in me' in order to demonstrate my faith – " she smirked at the pun – "isn't it better to have my soul ripped out and eradicated and to let my animated corpse shamble mindlessly through the rest of its existence, than to _read account books_?"

For a moment, I really thought I'd have to pry Ash off her.

Faith merely regarded him with cool superiority.

Quashing his wrath with titanic effort, he snapped, "Then I propose we ensure that the Church Hollows the wrong person 'by accident'."

At that idea, Faith's entire face lit up and a litany of possibilities poured forth: "Or we could kidnap him, Hollow him, and make it look like he did it; we could convince him to do it himself; we could make it look like he overindulged and dropped dead at a Hollowing…." Noticing my stupefied expression, she leaned close to whisper in my ear, "I could show _you_ the pleasures of Hollowing." Then she sat back and giggled.

"No!" I burst out. "No! We're not Hollowing anyone! That's – that's – "

In my distress, the only word that sprang to mind was "wrong," which was so weak a description that it didn't even begin to encompass the horror of destroying a perfectly good human being for benighted principles of faith.

"I left Iruvia – " and sacrificed my position, my family, my entire _life_ – "so I could escape a city ruled by Demon Princes, and _this_ is what I find here?"

Faith shushed me as if I were a toddler throwing a tantrum. "Don't worry, Isha. Your soul is safe with us."

That _hadn't_ been what I was worrying about.

Ash was more blunt. "It's certainly worth more than six coin," he pointed out.

I sputtered in outrage.

Faith patted me comfortingly on the head. "There, there, Isha, if your maidenly qualms do not permit us to rip out Skannon Vale's temporarily immortal soul, will they allow us to poison his temporal flesh?"

That _did _sound much more acceptable. And I even knew the perfect place to get drugs.

* * *

"You know the unpleasantness at the Docks?" I asked Mylera in the privacy of her office.

"Mmmhmmm," she replied impassively. Folding her hands on her desk, she regarded me politely.

I wasn't fooled. From that position, she could easily reach the blades strapped to her arms, the jeweled "historical" dagger displayed among her curios, and the stiletto disguised as a letter opener. Mylera, as more than one would-be assassin had discovered, was at her most dangerous when she brought out the etiquette.

I soldiered on, making sure to keep my own hands where she could see them. "We've been investigating. The Lampblacks have hired us to remove the person behind the…acquisitions." I deliberately left it vague as to whether we'd done the preliminary surveillance at our own or Bazso's behest.

At the mention of the Lampblacks, Mylera's face hardened. "I see." Her right hand twitched, just the tiniest bit.

I held my own hands absolutely still. "We're planning to arrange for an overdose. We could use…assistance." Given that she too would benefit from checking the Hive, I thought she would be willing to donate drugs to the enterprise. I was planning to submit her aid to Bazso as evidence of the Red Sashes' collaborative spirit.

"I see," Mylera repeated, her dark eyes studying me like a vase at auction.

"Do you have any recommendations?" I hinted heavily.

Ash, Faith, and I had already debated the advantages and drawbacks of common narcotics and tentatively settled on Black Lotus, but I was curious what Mylera, owner of high-end drug dens across Doskvol, might suggest.

"Well, it depends on the effect you're going for," she lectured, shelving the issue of Lampblack involvement for the time being. She sat back in her chair, out of reach of the stiletto and jeweled dagger (but in range of the sword under her desk). "There's trance powder, but it's almost impossible to overdose on that. Quicksilver opens the user's mind to the ghost field, which might be useful if you have a Whisper – which I believe you do. Dream Smoke is probably too mild for what you're planning…."

"I've heard that they often use Bloodneedle at Mass," I volunteered. That was a stimulant that induced euphoric mania when injected. "The Church provides it, and devotees often bring it as a tithe. We were thinking of spiking it with something that would…interact poorly."

"You want Black Lotus then," she pronounced, and I felt a burst of satisfaction that we'd gotten it right. "Black Lotus is a depressant and hallucinogen. The two drugs clash _interestingly_." She smiled wryly. "It's not a combination we provide in our establishments, for obvious reasons."

Obediently, I chuckled at the folly of killing off your revenue source.

Ringing a bell, Mylera summoned one of the junior Red Sashes and ordered him to fill a syringe with a one-to-one mix of Bloodneedle and Black Lotus.

"Perhaps more than just the one needle?" I murmured. "As a backup?"

She glared at me, reminding me that she wasn't a charity soup kitchen, but nodded at the underling.

"I'm beginning to wonder what your angle in all this is, Glass," she remarked casually.

I nearly froze, but forced myself to shrug with equal casualness. "You know me. I'm just trying to make a new life in this city."

"Mmmmmhmmmm."

But she left it at that.

* * *

As our tithe for sixth-day Mass, we collected a horde of partyers, er, potential converts, that consisted mostly of university students celebrating the end of the week. Parading from one tavern to the next across Charterhall, we distributed alcohol liberally until everyone was in the appropriate state of mind for the service, so to speak, and then led the rowdy band to Vale's church.

From the outside, the architecture looked prim and proper, reflecting the sober-mindedness of the predominantly middle-class congregation. (The nobility attended its own, far grander cathedral in Brightstone, the grandiloquently named – and constructed – Sanctorium.) As soon as we stepped through the double doors, however, the staid right angles exploded into fantastical swirls and curlicues and oddly voluptuous curves, with nary a straight line in sight. Scanning the throng of clerks, lawyers, businesspeople, and doctors who swayed into the pews in their sixth-day best while swigging from bottles of wine and swapping needles, I made a mental note to recruit more of the middle class as informants. They definitely held hidden depths.

Our revelers dispersed when we entered the church, and Faith guided us onto a wavy wooden bench in the back. I noticed that she'd donned a black, albeit still frilly, gown for the service, during which she helpfully inserted her own _Commentaries on the Sermon to the Middle-Class Congregation of Charterhall_. According to her, the homily contained only standard, "uninspired" fodder. Embraced within a disconcertingly curvaceous pulpit, the priest exhorted us to live life to the fullest while we were alive and pontificated on the nobility of allowing life to end when it actually ended. Throughout his discourse, Faith flinched or grinned from time to time, although in no pattern I could discern.

The most exciting part of the sermon was staring at the urn of ravenous ghosts on the altar, all hooked up to electroplasmic lines and ready for electrocution. Faith was planning to disable the latch on the lid.

After the priest finally droned to a close, the congregation disintegrated into a mob that chattered with drug-enhanced zeal and hugged to excess. The deacons brought out a grand feast – syringes of Bloodneedle and snuffboxes of Dream Smoke laid neatly beside roast chickens and fruit arrangements in the shape of swans – and invited us to apply the lessons of the liturgy. With cheers of "Amen!" our respected civic leaders and model citizens launched into an orgy that didn't bode well for the governance of Doskvol.

Taking glasses of wine so we would blend in, Faith, Ash, and I circulated through the crowd and searched for Skannon Vale. After declining so many offers of drugs or kisses that my polite smile stiffened into a rictus, we finally tracked him down. With a knot of other men, he lounged in front of a stained glass window that could have depicted the Cataclysm just as easily as, well, never mind. My cheeks grew hot, and I hastily ducked my head.

Luckily for me, Faith was too busy examining Vale and his associates with clinical detachment to notice my chagrin.

Unluckily for us, they were using only drugs they'd brought themselves. As one of the men pushed up his sleeve to inject himself, I caught a glimpse of a bee tattoo.

"How do we separate him?" I asked Faith softly, under cover of sipping my wine.

She gave me an arch glance. "In my experience, everyone comes to Mass with an open mind."

And she was off, wending her way through the crowd with eerie ease. Here she touched a lone clerk on the shoulder and smilingly directed his attentions to the lawyer across the banquet table. There she slithered up to a couple locked in a passionate embrace and offered them a packet of Dream Smoke along with a pipe.

"Is it just me, or is she really good at this?" Ash asked with a slight frown.

"It's not just you." Encouraging revelers must have been part of her acolyte training.

Deftly weaving her way through the congregation, Faith at last made her way to Vale's little posse, one of whom had been casting sidelong glances at a pretty young girl across the room. With a pretty smile of her own, Faith pressed a syringe of Black Lotus into his hand. I just barely made out her words: "Your minds can be joined in a celebration of the Church." Taking him by the arm, she led him gently over to the girl and introduced them, then shepherded them to a dark corner. Leaning in, she whispered something that made the girl giggle in shock and excitement. As soon as Faith left, the couple began enacting her suggestion with great exuberance.

Even with her uncanny skill, though, it still took a long time to draw off Vale's allies. Ash wandered off to chat with a group by the (probably spiked) punch bowl, and I supposed that I should at least pretend to partake of the pleasures of the flesh while I was still alive because death would be the final end, etc. etc., but I couldn't quite bring myself to. Instead, I leaned against an oddly slippery column and observed. About half of the crowd was using Bloodneedle and the rest Dream Smoke, and the haze filling the room was starting to make me woozy.

* * *

I was back in U'Duasha, nursing a single tumbler of whiskey in the shadows at the back of the Great Hall while staring moodily at _him_, seated on the Patriarch's right. He was draped in stiff ceremonial robes that blinded us with ornate embroidery, and where the light from the chandeliers struck his head, his golden hair blazed like a crown. Not a year ago, he would have searched eagerly with his eyes until he found me, wherever I stood, and smiled ruefully, apology and regret and promise all in one.

Not so that night. His attention, like that of everyone else in the hall, was fixed on the Patriarch. That was how I knew I had lost him.

No, if I were being honest, I'd lost him the moment the heir apparent died under highly questionable circumstances (which was expected) and the Patriarch named _him_ the new heir (which was not). It had just taken a long time for me to admit it to myself; _he_, I was sure, had drawn the conclusion long ago and accepted it as the price of power.

But I was about to lose him not only in the emotional sense but the physical one as well, and against that farewell, I sipped my whiskey and stared at him, memorizing everything I could about his face, his eyes, his gestures. The precise manner in which he sliced his meat. The little ironic smile that played on the corners of his lips. The way he tipped his head ever so slightly when he was skeptical. Little things, yes, but ones that I knew so well, that had remained constant even as his heart and his mind changed, corrupted by the Patriarch and the Demon Prince they served. I would miss him so, so much.

I already missed him so, so much.

When I judged that everyone was too drunk and too busy swapping boasts and insults (albeit with an eye on the Patriarch, always with an eye on the Patriarch) to notice my absence, I slipped out of the hall and dashed to the treasury. The guards posted at the door challenged me, of course, but I simply explained that _he _wished to display Grandfather to the assembled House and had sent me to fetch it. Since our devotion to each other was famous, strained as it had become in the past year, the guards let me take the carved wooden case that housed the sword.

As soon as I turned the corner, I ducked into a storage closet. There on the dusty floorboards, I opened the lid with trembling fingers, lifted Grandfather from its silken wrappings, slung it on my sword belt, and fled.

It didn't take long before the Patriarch – at least, I hoped it was the Patriarch and not my parents or _he_ – discovered the theft and sent assassins after me. For all my training, I barely survived the first few encounters. After one fight left me bleeding and alone in a dark alley a few blocks from the Akorosian Consulate, the sword spoke to me for the first time. In the tones of a wise old grandfather, it urged me to seek sanctuary in Akoros. I didn't trust it, of course. Who would trust the Prince of Shadows? But what choice did I have? Luckily, our tutors had drilled almost accentless Akorosian into us, so all I had to do was disguise myself as a servant, mingle with the service staff at the Consulate, and eventually smuggle myself to Doskvol.

* * *

"That's not a bad impression of someone high on Dream Smoke, Isha." Faith's half-assessing, half-teasing voice jolted me out of my memories. "But you should try to look more like you're enjoying yourself."

"What – oh."

The banquet hall of my past melted and transformed back into the church in Charterhall. Five feet away, Skannon Vale drew a needle from his left coat pocket and injected himself as he chatted with his last two associates.

Shouts across the room caught my attention.

"That cheating slime!"

The voice sounded strangely familiar, although I'd never heard it at that volume, and distorted by rage and substance abuse. Edging my way around a rather energetic orgy, I sidled towards the commotion.

"Yes, yes, it's most inappropriate for her to abscond with another gentleman when _you_ escorted her here, is it not?" Now that was definitely Ash.

Sure enough, in an ever-growing open space by the banquet table stood my crewmate – and Tocker Helker.

The general's widower glowered ferociously at a woman snuggling in a pew with another man. "She's disgusting, she's revolting, she's – " He flung an accusing hand in her direction but tottered and nearly fell.

Leaning forward as if to press Tocker's hand in sympathy, Ash slid a dagger into it. "Isn't it outrageous? And after you were the one who invited her to Mass too!"

Lost in a whirl of drug-addled grief and wrath, the little lawyer suddenly whipped around and slashed at Ash with the knife.

Ash yelped and leaped back – but not fast enough.

The blade connected with a hideous _riiiiip._

Ash's left coat sleeve flapped open. A trickle of blood ran down his arm.

Murmurs broke out around them. Partly appalled – but mostly curious – the congregation swayed back a few more steps and formed a ragged circle around the pair. With a resigned expression that suggested violence wasn't entirely uncommon at Church fêtes, the priest started wading through his flock. "Excuse me, excuse me, coming through, coming through…."

Craning my head, I strained for a glimpse of Vale's associates, hoping to see another man heading over. However, they only huddled together under the stained-glass window and began to evaluate whether they should leave.

There was no time to lose.

I deftly detached myself from the onlookers and glided back towards Vale, then pretended to get jostled and knocked off my feet. Waving my arms and stumbling forward, I clutched at his coat to keep from falling – and slid one of Mylera's needles into his pocket.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, sir!" I cried. "I didn't mean to! Someone pushed me!"

"No harm done, miss," Vale replied tersely, setting me back on my feet. "Haig, go find Boden. Tell him we're leaving."

Haig began to force his way through the crowd, pushing towards the first man Faith lured off. Swiftly, she organized a couple dozen Dream Smoke users into a rowdy dance that snaked around the church and cut off his path again and again. They even managed to sweep away the last of Vale's associates.

At this point, our target decided that enough was enough and he was leaving immediately, with or without his fellow Hivers. As soon as she saw him winding towards a side door, Faith flounced over to the priest and whispered urgently in his ear.

The clergyman abruptly turned on his heel and strode to the altar, where he raised both his arms and pronounced in ringing tones that sliced through the haze of Dream Smoke: "Dearly beloved, let us now proceed to the incineration of unholy abominations!"

_I _would have left anyway, but devout worshipper that he was, Vale now felt compelled to stay.

At the same time, Ash's voice soared above the din in a gleeful shout, "It's time to get into a passion! Nothing could be more devotional than fighting over jealous passions!" Through a gap in the crowd, I saw him whip out a second dagger.

Everything happened at once.

Tocker lunged clumsily at him with the bloody knife.

Ash twisted out of the way and rammed his dagger between Tocker's ribs.

The lawyer crumpled to the floor and lay motionless, a pool of blood slowly spreading around him. As usual, there was no bell.

Across the room, I caught a glimpse of Faith's face. For a split second, she looked inexpressibly frustrated, active annoyance and resigned acceptance chasing each other across her features.

Then she snapped out of it and refocused on the altar, where the priest was just reaching for the switch that would unleash bolts of electroplasmic energy upon the hapless ghosts.

Faith's lips curved slightly upward.

At the very last instant, the priest noticed that the latch was broken. As horror dawned on his face, the lid blasted into the air, propelled by howling specters that shot out of the urn in a magnificent geyser of electroplasm. The electric-blue fount struck the ceiling and shattered into five frayed, feral ghosts that arched above the frozen congregation as if selecting their prey.

Yanking out a pistol from under his robes, the priest swung in a semi-circle and squeezed off an electroplasmic round at the closest ghost, which dodged, hovered overhead, and fixed its empty eyes on him.

Faith smiled again, toothily. The other four ghosts dove into the crowd, which finally snapped out of its stupor. Screams echoed off the walls as the mass of drunk, hallucinating worshippers stumbled and crawled for the exits.

In a flash, the first ghost leaped into the priest, who went stiff as a corpse, finger still curved around the trigger.

Two ghosts oozed their way into a couple in a corner who were frantically trying to pull on clothing.

I scanned the church rapidly. Scattered throughout the room, all of Vale's associates were too busy saving themselves to pay him any attention. Letting a wave of fleeing Bloodneedle users catch me up, I slid my backup needle out of my pocket and palmed it. Right as they swept me past Vale, I rammed it into his back and let it drop next to him. For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happened.

Calmly descending from the altar, the priest left through a side door.

Ash had already vanished, leaving Tocker's body in a small lake of blood.

Faith was nowhere to be seen.

All of a sudden, Skannon Vale wheezed and began to convulse all over. Within half a minute, he collapsed to the floor, twitched one final time, and died.

Faith materialized by my side, making me jump. "We shouldn't leave extra corpses lying around," she said softly. "It would be too messy."

She easily detached me from the crowd of Bloodneedle users, and we approached Tocker's corpse together.

"Here, Mr. Helker, let's get you out of here," I said, pretending to help him up.

Faith took his other side, and we "walked" him out of the church in the middle of the mob. Outside, Ash signaled to us from the shadows, _I'll keep a lookout_.

With him shadowing us, Faith and I rushed to the nearest canal and dumped in the body – right as two Bluecoats rounded the corner. We barely had time to jump to our feet and pretend we were admiring the moon's reflection in the water.

Hand clamped over his bleeding arm, Ash immediately hailed them. "Officers! Help! I've been stabbed!" he shouted imperiously, sounding infinitely offended that anyone would dare violate the sanctity of aristocratic flesh. "Stabbed! In Charterhall of all places! How could you let this happen?"

Faith and I slunk into the darkness.

Behind us, displaying a conspicuous lack of concern for the injury, one Bluecoat was reciting in a bored voice, "Milord, you'll need to come to the station to fill out a report."

Ash's voice trailed off as he followed them down the street. "There were ghosts afoot! In Charterhall! What do we pay the spirit wardens for?"

* * *

At the Charterhall precinct, Ash spent a couple hours filling out a form in which he admitted to an altercation between him and another worshipper at Mass, although he claimed self-defense and intoxication (which was apparently a valid excuse for such incidents; there was even a little box to tick for that). He reported that he ran when the ghosts attacked, so he didn't know what became of the other man.

Only then did he return to the railcar.


	29. Arcane Business

"I lost the priest," was the first thing Ash said when he got back, disheveled and slightly frazzled.

Faith lounged back in her beribboned chair, the epitome of elegant ennui. "That's all right," she drawled, waving a hand listlessly as if she just couldn't muster the energy. "The Church will probably execute or Hollow him." At the thought, she suddenly perked up and started gesticulating enthusiastically. "There's a basement in the Sanctorium where they keep the fallen. You can hear their screams ringing off nearby buildings!"

"There's a _what_?" yelped Ash, appalled by the Church's transgressions. "It's unacceptable to keep people in eternal torment!"

"I agree," said Faith with a twist of her lips. Sinking back into her chair, she trailed a languid hand over the armrest. "It was driving down property values, so the Church has added soundproofing in the past few years."

"We can't just leave them there!" cried Ash.

Bored again, Faith shrugged. "Oh, don't worry, the bodies decay eventually. It's only the ghosts that are stuck there forever – or at least until Doskvol falls. And then the Sanctorium will collapse, and specters driven mad by too much faith and too much drugs will be released to wreak havoc on the city. They will take revenge upon and possess _everyone_, humans and demons alike."

Now that just sounded like wishful thinking. No demon I'd ever heard of could be controlled by a mere ghost.

In perfect agreement with me, Ash gave Faith a reproachful look. "How about something that doesn't take ten millennia?" he proposed drily. "We can target the Immortal Emperor."

Ironically, I reminded him, "Who's going to pay us?"

"All those who stand to benefit," Ash replied immediately. He seemed to have put some thought into the matter already. "But for now, I want to blow up the wards around the Sanctorium and free all the possessed people."

Faith yawned widely without bothering to cover her mouth. "That would be bad for property values. Are you long or short?"

"Short, of course," Ash retorted. "What do you take me for?" Turning to me, he inquired, "What's your take on the Church?"

Promptly, I replied, "It's not big in U'Duasha. If it leaves me alone, I leave it alone."

"Except that it doesn't," Ash said, somewhat nonsensically. (Given our activities tonight, it was really more the other way around.) "We should check on the ghost that's possessing the priest."

"You mean the mad ghost?" Faith drawled, arching an eyebrow as if she were edging towards interested.

"What does that have to do with us?" I protested at the same time.

With infinite sweetness and patience, Faith explained, "Because, Isha, we should make friends with people who have the same level of social aptness and mental instability as ourselves. It's important to befriend our peers, and if they happen to be mad ghosts, then we should grow to accept that."

I didn't even know what to say.

More practically, Ash pointed out, "A high-ranking contact in the Church will be helpful."

After tonight, probably – except that I wouldn't exactly call the priest of a church in Charterhall "high ranking." I objected, "What good will he do us if he's just going to be caught and disintegrated?"

Faith opened her mouth, but Ash quickly forestalled her sermon on the utility of possessed priests. "A more competent ghost might not get caught. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to do more research. There has to be a way to block ghosts from being scried on and identified when they're possessing humans, even within the Church of Ecstasy."

* * *

The next morning, one of Ilacille's acolytes reported to me that Ash had paid a visit to the priestess to inquire if she drew power from the gods.

"What did she say?" I asked, curious in spite of myself.

The acolyte shook her head. "She said that one doesn't serve the gods for power. One serves them because they are _there_. And then she added that if he's serving for power, he will have a short career."

We both winced.

"How did Ash respond to that?" I had a guess, but I wanted to hear it confirmed.

The acolyte shook her head again. "He asked if That Which Hungers would accept anything less. And the priestess said that he's chosen his god well."

_I_ could have told her that.

* * *

What I couldn't have told her, however, was what Ash inadvertently let slip.

Without preamble, he demanded, "What do you think of these two Hollowed bodies with ghosts?"

Completely confused, I asked, "_What_ Hollowed bodies?" I thought the entire point of arranging the overdose for Skannon was so that no one got Hollowed.

Matter-of-factly, Ash rattled off, "Chime and the priest, although I suppose technically the priest isn't Hollowed, just possessed – "

I interrupted in a shrill voice, "Chime? What do you mean, Chime? We didn't Hollow Chime!"

Ash gave me a look as if I were being particularly dense or unreasonable, and he didn't have time to figure out which so I'd better cut it out. "Of course we Hollowed Chime. What did you _think_ happened to him?"

"We never said anything about Hollowing Chime! Faith would _never_ do something like that!"

"Faith?" Now Ash was genuinely shocked. "You think _Faith_ wouldn't do something like that? Isha, do you know _anything_ Faith wouldn't do – well, once anyway, and then she'd get bored?"

I had no better argument than: "No! She wouldn't do such a thing!"

"What do you think all the screaming was?"

"She was recreating a Bluecoat interrogation! She was torturing him! Of course he was screaming!"

"Yeeees, and then when she was done torturing him, she Hollowed him."

"That's not true!"

"Isha, look, either way he was going to end up dead and we were going to end up with a body. This way, we could sell it to Nyryx afterwards and make some money."

"No! Our crew doesn't do things like that! That's not who we are!"

After a certain point, Ash gave up on whatever he'd planned to ask me and left me to my shrieking.

* * *

I did calm down in time to tail him to Catcrawl Alley in the Docks, where he leaned casually against a wall and scanned the Menagerie with detached interest until Nyryx arrived. (When I saw her, I shuddered, thinking of how she'd literally _bought_ Chime's body, knowing the torture and desecration that had created it.)

The Reconciled swayed up to Ash and asked in her – or rather, her possibly-Hollowed _body's_ – husky voice, "You were looking for me?"

Ash got right to the point. "We have shared enemies. There is no _easy_ way to upset the order of the Church, but someone – a Reconciled someone – high in its hierarchy could work wonders. It will be difficult, but it may be possible."

Neither Nyryx's face nor tone gave anything away. "So…I'm still listening." A group of dockers staggered by with angrily rumbling crates, and she leaned in close as if to proposition Ash. "We've considered this ourselves, you know. There are still logistical details."

"I'm working on them," Ash assured her, so focused on his goal that he barely registered her proximity. "Obviously there's a price, especially for those performing the ritual, but we have a lot to gain."

The Reconciled pulled away and probed delicately, "So you're trying to set the Church against the Emperor? All of Faith's plans didn't seem good enough?"

There was a startled silence in the alley. For once, Ash's Slide instincts failed him.

Nyryx's eyes narrowed. "I thought you and Faith were working together."

He tried to recover. "Yes, we are," he insisted. "On the ritual."

She gave him an odd look but conceded, "It can work. I can find volunteers." She hesitated, then warned, "I will point out, though, that we have all the time in the world. It's only the living who are impatient."

"Yes, yes, I _know_ that," said the living dismissively, effectively proving the Reconciled's point.

* * *

As proof that _some_ humans could be patient (and persistent and pretty darn courageous too), I slunk off to the Sensorium to check on my archivist even though I was no longer certain that I wanted to know what Faith was up to. I caught him locking the back door before he headed home for supper. Without a word, I fell in beside him.

He squeaked.

"Keep walking," I directed in a low voice. "Act _normal_."

Although he cast a fleeting glance at the nearest government office, as if debating whether to dash for it, he obeyed. Side by side, we trotted east across the district until the cupolas of Six Towers loomed above the mist.

Mother was right: Some agents really did require more prodding than others. "We're almost home." His home, that was. "What do you have for me?"

The archivist cringed and craned his neck conspicuously, checking the street for anyone who might overhear us. I suppressed a sigh. "She came in two days ago," he stage-whispered. "She asked for a memory of the Charhallow Conflagration."

I'd never heard of such a thing. "What's that?"

He sniffed. "I don't keep track of doings in Charhallow."

I quelled him with a flat stare. "All knowledge is useful," I reproved him. Mimicking Mother's silky tone, I elaborated, "For example, if you'd had knowledge of what happened during the Charhallow Conflagration, you might have made yourself useful to _me_."

The archivist's eyes bulged like a devilfish's. "I _am_ useful, miss! I know it had something to do with a sermon! Because Madame Keitel said that she had both the conflagration and the sermon that led up to it!"

I nodded approvingly. "That's better, but still not all that informative. What else do you have?"

"Mistress Karstas was involved somehow!"

Why did that not surprise me? "Oh?"

"Yes! Madame Keitel asked if she – Mistress Karstas, I mean – were feeling nostalgic! Then she asked if things were extra good or extra bad right now."

Now I was curious. "And what did Mistress Karstas say?"

"She said she wasn't entirely sure."

Huh. Was she having second thoughts about Hollowing Chime? No, that wasn't the sort of thing that would bother Faith.

"Then Madame Keitel said that it's been a long time since she saw Mistress Karstas like this."

"What did she mean by 'this'?"

The archivist shrank in on himself. "I don't know," he mumbled. "She didn't say."

I sighed and waved him on. I might have been more gentle, but I wasn't in the mood. "Go on. I don't have all night, and neither do you. I'm sure your family is waiting."

The archivist gulped. "Mistress Karstas said that things are more chaotic and violent, that they're different, that it's a nice change of pace from Setarra."

"Setarra? What's a Setarra?"

The archivist flinched. "I don't – "

"Know," I finished for him. "Fine. Keep going."

"Madame Keitel asked, 'Are you involved with demons again?'"

"_What_?" I yelped, completely forgetting to keep my voice down. "Did you say _demons_?"

The archivist started to panic. "Yes? I think that's what she said? I think I heard right? I think I remembered right?"

"_Demons_," I repeated numbly. "Mistress Karstas is involved with _demons_."

A black crystal spire rose in my vision, half-obscured by wisps of smoke, and Grandfather's voice echoed, _Child, all you have to do is…._

The Patriarch's eyes glowed with malice as he watched my cousins duel to death before his throne.

Claws clamped around my legs, dragging me down, down, down into the depths of the canal. I couldn't breath – I was choking, drowning –

Wait, wait, calm down, Isha. Ash is part-demon. Maybe Faith was involved with Tycherosi in the past as well.

The archivist's next words allayed my fears. "She said, 'Yes, although the demon in question would be insulted to be called such. You've met my Tycherosi friend.'"

See, Isha? Nothing to worry about, nothing at all to worry about.

"And then she said, 'And the girl too. She's not a demon, but she's tainted, although it's not clear she knows it yet.'"

I froze.

That could only be me.

But tainted? By a demon? How? All these years, I'd been so careful to reject Grandfather's corruption. I refused to listen to him, refused to let him help me, refused to allow him past my defenses.

Except – except when I did.

When I lay bleeding in an alley in U'Duasha and he advised me to flee to Doskvol. When I was dueling Ronia Helker and couldn't hope to win and he lent me strength. When I was drowning in the canal and he drove off the water demon. What had he roared then? _You can't have her. She's _mine_!_

_She's mine_.

I'm his. I'm his. Oh gods, I'm demon tainted and Faith knows it and never told me.

No expert at reading body language, the archivist was still babbling away. "And then Mistress Karstas said, "But now I'm exhausted. That was too much truth for one month.' And Madame Keitel removed some memories from her and they told each other, 'I love you' – " the archivist looked as if he weren't convinced Faith was capable of love, and I was sure my expression echoed his – "and then Mistress Karstas left." He looked at me hopefully, like Sleipnir begging for a pastry. "That's all I have, miss."

Dully, I replied, "That's very good," passed him the promised slugs, and escorted him to his front door.

* * *

Cutting through Charterhall University on my way home, I caught a glimpse of a familiar ruffled dress in the distance. For a moment I wavered, but then I reprimanded myself, "All knowledge is useful." Changing directions, I followed Faith all the way to Six Towers, to the bridge where we'd attacked the Helkers' carriage. Translucent and glowing a faint blue, Tocker sat forlornly on the railing where I'd thrown Ronia and myself into the black waters. Nearby lurked Cricket, thin and diffuse. I huddled in a doorway to observe.

Ignoring Cricket, Faith traipsed right up to Tocker. She propped her unpowered lightning rod against the railing and hopped up to sit next to him. After a moment, she said, "Hi" in a remarkably subdued voice.

Tocker didn't even glance at her. "I'm waiting for my wife."

Faith hesitated, then said gently, "I'm really sorry to say this, Mr. Helker, but your wife is no longer here."

Tocker didn't bat an eye. "I will wait. She will come."

Faith lifted one hand as if to pat him on the arm, but let it drop. "I'm sorry, Mr. Helker, but this path you're taking – ahead lie only madness and despair. It won't end well for anyone." Her voice sounded infinitely weary and wise, the way Grandfather's did sometimes, and perhaps it was that compassion that finally got through to Tocker.

Morosely, he addressed the water. "Then I will wait until the wardens come."

At the end of the bridge, Cricket drifted a little closer, watching alertly.

Faith sat with Tocker for a few more minutes, watching the moons' reflections sway across the waves. "Do you have any messages you want to convey?" she asked finally.

He shook his head. "I just want to make sure someone takes care of the children."

Faith nodded with complete sincerity. "It will be done," she promised. "I'm sorry, Mr. Helker."

And then she slowly picked up her lightning hook, charged it to crackling, and dismantled his soul. Tocker never uttered a word, never even took his eyes off the water. To the end he gazed into the canal, waiting for his wife to come.

At last it was done, and Faith lowered the rod and stood in silence with her head bowed, like one saying farewell at a funeral. Cricket drifted forward as if aimlessly and hesitated. When Faith didn't acknowledge her, the little ghost floated even closer. "Seems like a waste, doesn't it?" she chirped.

Without looking at her, Faith explained quietly, "His death was a waste, but his undeath was also a waste. There are some ghosts that are able to survive, to hold on…. Tocker didn't have the personality." Then she snapped out of her reverie and smiled impishly at Cricket. "But _you_, my darling – _you_ have done a good job," she said in a reasonable facsimile of her usual flippancy.

Cricket pouted. "I could have eaten him."

"There will be others," Faith assured her. "You're doing well for yourself." Stretching out a hand, she petted Cricket's ghostly tummy. "You know, if you're hungry, you can do extra things for me…."

Cricket cocked her head to a side, considering. "They _do_ say Whispers can be useful when they're not trying to kill you."

Faith adopted a mock-wounded expression. "I'm offended! I'll have you know that I'm useful even when I'm trying to kill you!"

Cricket just giggled and whirled around her.

Faith gave her directions to the railcar and offered, "Find me if you ever want something to do."

"Will do!" Cricket cried and zipped off in search of a ghost she _could_ consume.


	30. Finding Him

Still thoughtful after what I'd seen, I drifted across the city to Brightstone with half-formed plans of scouring the Bowmore Bridge neighborhood for _him_. But as I passed through the Silver Market, a gaggle of young Akorosian ladies in Skovlan-themed clothing jolted me out of my reverie.

Ye gods, was that really an entire, cage-crinoline-type skirt constructed from screaming yellow, pink, and orange tartan silk? The Lampblacks would have _opinions_, no, the entire province of Skovlan would have opinions – of the variety where you didn't want to be on the wrong (_i.e._ pointy) end.

Hastily purchasing an overpriced wool cloak to fling over my threadbare gown, I scurried after the girls like a friend who'd gotten left behind.

When I caught up at a jewelry stand, Tartan Skirt was holding a crude gilt brooch to her bosom while her friends teased, "Hoping you'll impress Finnley tonight?"

The target blushed and giggled, but determinedly asked the vendor, "Are you _quite_ certain this is authentic, Master Goldsmith?"

Might I suggest the section on Skovlan in the Charterhall University Library for some light background reading?

Sensing a victim, the artisan adopted an ingratiating tone. "But of course, my lady! May I?" Taking the brooch, he held it up to the electroplasmic bulb. "Do you see how elongated the dragon is? And how it's set against a background of interwoven vines that form a classic knot?" All the girls clustered around him, craning their necks and bobbing their heads eagerly like so many painted geese. "This style is all the rage in Skovlan right now."

He pinned the brooch to Tartan Skirt's bodice and held up a mirror so she could preen to her heart's delight. Edging through the gaggle, I pretended to admire the effect. "That goes so nicely with your hair!" I praised. (Well, gold matched any color hair, even muddy brown.) "Whoever he is, I'm sure he'll be utterly entranced when he sees you." The girls all teetered, and I cast an arch glance at them. "So who is this mysterious someone?"

Tartan Skirt turned as pink as the stripes on her dress and elbowed her nearest friend, who dodged and blabbed, "Why, it's Lord Finnley Tyrconnell from Skovlan, of course! Ooh, he's soooo hot! He's just the perfect height – you know, tall enough to make you feel protected, but not so tall he makes you feel like a _dwarf_ – and you can tell he's a sportsman, but he doesn't _bulge_ like a common _docker_ – "

Another girl, who was wearing an orange, turquoise, and black tartan cloak, cooed, "And he has hair like spun gold and eyes the color of – of what they say was the color of the sky before the Cataclysm…. He's just sooooo dashing…."

If we were talking about the same man, then regrettably I had to agree. Donning a dreamy expression of my own, I sighed, "Isn't he _just_?"

"And he's so mysterious, too!" put in a chubby girl, at whose waist pouffed a pink tartan bow the size of which might have impressed even Faith. "He's always the _consummate_ gentleman – not even the Dowager Lady Dunvil can fault his manners, and you know she hates _everybody_ under the age of twenty-five – but he never gives any woman a second glance."

Tartan Skirt stage-whispered, "I heard from Mara, who heard from her sister's friend's cousin's fiancé, that Lord Finnley came to Doskvol to forget a girl who broke his heart."

"But you're going to un-break it, aren't you?" I teased, but my voice didn't come out quite naturally.

She didn't notice. She was too busy disclaiming her intentions.

Tartan Cloak lowered her voice. "They say he threw himself into politics to distract himself, you know. They say he got mixed up with all these political dissidents in Skovlan and that's why his family sent him here."

Tartan Bow piped up triumphantly, "Except it didn't work. _I_ heard that he's been meeting with Hutton of the Grinders and that terrorist Ulf Ironborn and Bell Brogan the _union_ organizer and even Odrienne Keel."

Tartan Skirt glared. "He'd _never_!" she exclaimed indignantly. "Finnley would _never_ betray the Imperium!"

"_And _he's met with the supporters of Ian Templeton too," Tartan Bow finished with relish. "What, scared your family will disinherit you if they find out you're setting your cap for a Skovlander dissident?" she taunted.

Tartan Skirt tossed her muddy-brown curls. "My family would never disown me. And Finnley is no dissident!"

Her friends all laughed. "He's just a lost man in need of gentle female guidance and redemption, right?"

Tartan Skirt ignored them and addressed me, the only sympathetic party in sight. "_Anyway_, he lives next door to us and chats with my father _all _the time, and my father says that Finnley is on good terms with the Skovlander _and_ Iruvian Consuls. You can't accuse Brynna Skyrkallan or Elstera Avrathi of treason, can you?" she concluded triumphantly.

Weeeeell, that depended on what the three of them were plotting, didn't it? Regardless, I had the information I needed. Winking at Tartan Skirt and wishing her luck (I didn't say what kind) with her conquest, I bustled away to track down my agents.

* * *

As it turned out, Elstera's footman confirmed that on six separate occasions, one Finnley Tyrconnell had been present at meetings between Elstera and Brynna. Unfortunately, he had no idea what they discussed.

The Skovlander Consulate was a little harder to crack, but eventually I recruited a minor clerk. Unfortunately, he wasn't important enough to attend the Consul's conferences, but he did know that Elstera was trying to bolster relations with Skovlan due to recent tensions between Iruvia and the Imperium. Intriguingly, the clerk got the impression – although he couldn't quite say why – that Brynna had also been giving Finnley and Elstera a pretext to meet.

After that, I hunted down Tartan Skirt's address and skulked in the shadows across the street from her well-maintained, three-story townhouse. That particular neighborhood was a favorite of nobles who rented for a season or two – just the sort of place with high turnover rates that _he'd_ choose. As I waited and watched, there was a flurry of activity in front of the townhouse to Tartan Skirt's left, and servants in elegant livery brought around a polished carriage. I studied their movements, wondering how convincingly I could impersonate a footman.

And then the front door opened and _he_ emerged.

As the Tartan Girls had said, he was tall. Slender. Graceful. Undeniably, heart-stoppingly handsome.

He looked just as I remembered from that last night in U'Duasha, when he sat, composed and remote, on the dais beside the Patriarch.

He was in disguise, of course. Playing Skovlander nobleman, he wore a waistcoat in a shade calculated to highlight the gold of his hair and the frost blue of his eyes, and downplay the faint Iruvian cast to his cheekbones.

Next door, a portly middle-aged man bumbled out of Tartan Skirt's house and hailed him loudly_._ _He _raised one elegant hand in greeting, tipped his silk top hat in the most dashing way, and exchanged a few polite words. As _he_ started down the steps towards the waiting carriage, the clasp on his cloak caught the light.

It was the clasp I'd given him for his birthday three years ago.

I swallowed hard. Should I approach him? What would he do? What would he say?

He'd be happy to see me, wouldn't he? For reasons beyond fulfilling his mission to recover Grandfather and haul me back to U'Duasha?

He _must_ have missed me, right?

Before I could finished wrestling with myself, he cast a quick glance up and down the street, his eyes skimming over my corner. Then he swung lightly into his carriage and drove off to the next party and the next gaggle of girls vying for his favor.

I felt simultaneously crestfallen and relieved.

Hiding my face in my cloak, I wandered aimlessly until my footsteps brought me to Crow's Foot and Bazso's townhouse. I looked up at the façade – so nice for Crow's Foot – and saw only the peeling paint, the warped shutters, the overwhelming _ugliness_ of the design.

I walked away.

* * *

I was back in Crow's Foot the next day, of course, for a follow-up visit with Sawbones before my fencing lesson. As he undid the bandages on my legs in the back room of the Leaky Bucket (I'd bet that _his _townhouse never leaked), a perfunctory knock interrupted us, and Bazso strolled in. I met his eyes, so much like _his_ eyes, and looked away.

"So?" I asked the doctor, determinedly ignoring Bazso. "Can I go back to a normal activity level _now_?"

Sawbones studied the curving lines of claw marks that circled my calves. He jammed a dirty fingernail into the shiny, pink skin. "Does that hurt?"

I stifled a gasp. "No."

Beside me, Bazso radiated disbelief.

Sawbones shrugged. "Then yes." Clearing away the bandages, he advised, "Try not to tangle with any more demons. They're bad for your long-term health."

A yelp of laughter escaped me, but cut off as soon as Bazso asked, "Sawbones, can you give us a minute?"

In answer, the doctor left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Avoiding Bazso's gaze, I pulled down my pants legs and slid off the table. "Well, I should get going. I have class in fifteen minutes, and I should get there early so I can review what I taught last week – "

"Isha, wait." Bazso put a hand on my arm. Sounding concerned, he asked, "Is something the matter? You haven't been around much lately."

I still didn't meet his eyes. "I've been busy."

He waited for a minute. When I declined to elaborate, he said, "I'll let you get to the sword academy then. Have dinner with me tonight." He raised an eyebrow in a roguish gesture that I normally found charming. "We can compare scars," he invited. "I have some interesting ones, even if they're not from demons."

What could I say? "Sure. I'll meet you here after class."

* * *

The putative Lord Finnley Tyrconnell wasn't the only one in need of distraction. To purge the vision of silly girls decked in Skovlander-inspired attire flinging themselves at him, I met Mylera after class for our weekly coffee chat and reported the Skannon Vale business. I made sure to stress Bazso's competence in identifying the Hive's activities as a threat to the gangs of Crow's Foot and the Docks, and contracting the appropriate assassins accordingly.

"The Hive nearly had enough space to dock a leviathan hunter!" I exclaimed, perhaps a little more forcefully than necessary.

Mylera nearly choked on her coffee. "A leviathan hunter?" she sputtered. "I can't imagine what they'd do with one."

"Me neither. But now we don't need to worry about it, because thanks to Bazso, we've dealt with that problem."

Setting down her cup, Mylera fixed me with a serious stare. "Glass, it's not his competence that I question," she reminded me.

"I didn't mean – "

She interrupted. "Do you do the same thing to _him_?"

A range of options flashed through my mind – play dumb, play innocent, play outraged. In the end, I settled on playing the little sister who'd just gotten caught messing around in Big Sister's jewelry box _again_. "Maaaaaybeeeee?" I pouted.

She wasn't fooled. Sternly, she said, "I hope you're not spending so much time over there that you're losing objectivity and getting _fond_ of the man, Glass. I need information untainted by emotion."

Since playing cute had failed, I brought out my true self. Straightening until I sat ramrod straight, I lifted my chin and replied icily, "You know what family I come from. Have you ever known _any_ of us to let our reports be tainted by _emotion_?"

It was a fair question.

But Mylera responded regally, "U'Duasha is far away." Just when I'd begun to wonder whether that was a threat, she added a little more gently, "We all change here, Glass."

Emphatically, I shook my head. "Not that much."

She gave a single, curt nod. "Good."

After that, I deemed it wisest to beat a hasty retreat. After all, the man I _wasn't_ supposed to get fond of was waiting for me.


	31. Irimina's Wrath

Irimina's message (with helpful addenda by Faith) caught up to me at Bazso's townhouse the next morning. The stained, crumpled sheet of paper was delivered by one very grumpy Bug, who couldn't understand why people wanted to see me at all, much less _immediately_, and if it were really so urgent, then why didn't they hunt me down themselves instead of disrupting the daily activities, i.e. breakfast, of an entire network of runners? It was just plain inconsiderate, was what it was.

I had to sacrifice one of my favorite pastries in addition to the usual coppers before His Highness deigned to remove himself from the kitchen.

"That's a smart kid," Bazso chuckled, handing me a replacement pastry for the road. "Trying to steal him from the Lampblacks?"

"I would never!"

He only laughed and waved away my protests. "It was a joke, Isha." At the door, he bade me farewell with a "Stay safe," which seemed particularly apt given Faith's extracurriculars.

And of course, since I'd been avoiding her as much as possible lately, Faith's first act when she saw me on Irimina's front step was to fling her arms around me in an enthusiastic hug.

I wrenched free.

"Don't worry, your soul is saaaaafe in my hands!" she sang as Rutherford the butler opened the door.

"That's what I'm afraid of," I snapped, straightening my shirt.

"Ooooh, you say the sweetest things!"

Immaculate in his black coat and white gloves, the butler surveyed our little crew, decided our squabbles were none of his concern, and ushered us to the parlor.

The first oddity I noticed was that no teapot steamed tranquilly on the table. The second was that no Irimina draped bonelessly over the settee. In fact, it took me a second to recognize her: Face taunt, teeth gritted, shoulders stiff, she perched on the edge of the cushions as if ready to leap up and strangle someone with her embroidery threads.

We'd barely set foot on the shabby Iruvian rug when she snapped, "I have a job for you." Then, belatedly remembering her manners, she asked in a clipped voice, "Would you like tea?"

"Yes," chorused Ash and I.

"Rutherford, if you would?" Turning back to us, she didn't even bother to wait for us to sit before she said, in a tone that was all the more terrifying for its controlled rage, "I recently discovered that Elstera Avrathi has called for her problem-fixer to come to Doskvol. I want her dead – not the Consul, I'm told I can't do that – but I want the fixer _dead_. How much? Six coin? Eight? I want her soul in a _bottle_." She slammed a spirit bottle onto the table so hard that the crystal nearly cracked.

I cast a quick glance at my crewmates. Ash appeared to be contemplating how he could use this other side of Irimina. Faith just looked plain fascinated. Calmly, I asked our patron, "What can you tell us about this fixer? What is her name?"

"Na'ava Diala," she spat. "She usually works down _south_." In that tone, "south" turned into an obscenity.

I disregarded the slur to my homeland. I recognized the name: My family had mentioned – had probably employed indirectly – an assassin named Na'ava Diala. Also known as Arrow, she was a member of the Hadrakin, a mystical blood cult that worshipped the land of Iruvia itself. Fanatic ultra-nationalists, they wanted to secede from the Imperium and purge "true Iruvia" of all corruption, including demonic influence. I might have supported them more if their definition of "corruption" didn't also include all foreigners and "outsiders," including impure half-bloods such as my brother and myself.

I hadn't expected an Akorosian aristocrat to know or care about Iruvian cultists. "What is your interest in the matter?" I probed.

Irimina clenched her fists. "She killed someone I cared about."

Ash spoke up at last. "How did she do it?" he inquired with professional detachment. "We want to make sure that justice is…poetic."

"_She_ _cut Taji's throat_." Irimina pinched her lips together so tightly that all the blood drained from them. Combined with her rigid pose, she resembled a mummified desert corpse, thin, papery skin stretched taut over ridges of bone.

Abruptly, Faith pronounced, "Eight coin – "

Irimina didn't bat an eye. "Fine."

" – and I can provide _assistance _with the soul. Torture and bottling cost a little extra, of course."

"Fine," repeated Irimina. "What's your price?"

"For eternal torture…a kiss seems appropriate," Faith suggested slyly.

As a measure of her focus, Irimina didn't respond at all to the overture. "Fine," she said a third time. "Whatever. But I want Na'ava Diala's soul in a bottle and I want it _now_."

"Weelll," drawled Faith, "I need time to assemble the appropriate torture implements."

"You don't keep them around?" asked Ash ironically.

Faith pouted. "Why, I'm offended that you think I'd keep them on hand! It's not a _hobby_, you know. It's more of a _vocation_."

Irimina's harsh voice cut through their banter. "Then, by all means, do not let me keep you from your assemblage of appropriate torture implements."

That was about as clear of a dismissal as we could receive, short of being thrown out of the Kinclaith mansion like burglars or beggars.

* * *

While Ash headed to the Bluecoat precinct to scour their records for any mention of a murdered woman named Taji, I contacted my agents in the Iruvian Consulate for information on new arrivals. One of the clerks reported that relatively recently, Elstera had hired a new assistant secretary, one Ruka, a "weird" character who didn't mingle with the other staff and whose hard demeanor ensured that everyone gave her a wide berth. I wasn't sure that it was connected, but the timing certainly raised suspicions. However, further investigation revealed that Ruka was far too young to be Arrow – she'd have had to have started her assassination career at age seven, which seemed a little ambitious even for a Hadrakin.

Stymied, I met Ash in a Charterhall café to exchange notes. The Bluecoats had no record of a murder of anyone named Taji, which suggested that it had occurred elsewhere, possibly in U'Duasha where the Hadrakin maintained a troublesome presence.

"We could break into the Consulate or Ruka's place, if we can find it," I suggested.

"Let's wait outside the Consulate and follow her home," he decided.

Unfortunately, our sharp-eyed Hadrakin candidate varied her commute every day, doubled back on her tracks, and ducked into shops frequently to lose any tails. It took more time than we – or Irimina – would have liked, but eventually we managed to locate her lodgings, a rickety boardinghouse in a corner of Charhallow inhabited by the respectable lower class.

Dressed innocuously as an apprentice, Ash waited until the middle of the day, when all the boarders were at work, to break in. Although the elderly owners were at home, the wife was puttering about the kitchen while the husband read the _Doskvol Times_ by the fireplace, so Ash had no trouble at all strolling past them.

Ruka's abode turned out to be one of those spartan "furnished" rooms, with a sturdy, battered bed and a chest of drawers that looked as if it had already survived one Cataclysm and was ready for the next. Tellingly, the new assistant secretary had done absolutely nothing to make the place look like home, apart from setting a small statue of She Who Slays in Darkness on her desk. She didn't even possess any paper or pens, suggesting that she had other ways to report back to her people.

* * *

Although Ash had invited me to investigate Ruka's room with him, I'd declined in favor of burgling Finnley Tyrconnell's townhouse.

_Are you sure this is wise?_ Grandfather surprised me by objecting. _Are you ready to face him?_

Of course not. I wasn't even sure why I was doing it – nothing had indicated that _he _was connected to the Hadrakin. In fact, common sense dictated that a half-blood, demon-corrupted nobleman should stay as far away from the Hadrakin as possible, although that certainly wasn't what I'd told Ash.

But there was no point in lying to Grandfather. _I just want to get it over with_, I replied.

_It would be wiser to pick a time and place of your choosing_, it observed.

_I'm doing it now_. Before I lost my nerve. Letting myself in the gate, I began to cross the courtyard towards the tradesmen's entrance under the front steps.

_I don't want Na'ava killed,_ Grandfather cautioned._ She's a useful asset._

_Too bad._ I picked the lock on the door and prepared to step into the townhouse.

A sigh swept around the inside of my head. _Foolish child, at least let me conceal you so you don't get caught immediately._

That was acceptable. _All right_.

Instantly, a smoky shimmer settled around my shoulders like a cloak, and I slipped silently and invisibly past the maids to reconnoiter the residence of one Finnley Tyrconnell, self-professed lovelorn lord from Skovlan.

The layout was standard fare for these Akorosian terraced houses. The ground floor was taken up by the morning and dining rooms, and the entirety of the first floor by the drawing room. All of these spaces for public entertaining bore an exaggerated Skovlander stamp décor-wise, almost but not quite at the level of that ridiculous Moon's Embrace Spa. (However else _he'd_ changed, at least the Patriarch hadn't crushed all good taste out of him yet.) Once I reached the bedrooms on the second floor, I began to catch glimpses of subtle Iruvian touches in the color scheme, the choice of rugs, the selection of furniture.

At last I came to _his _room – the master bedroom, obviously, connected to a dressing room that he'd converted into a study. His sword, which I'd seen at his side the other day, lay across his desk as if his current engagement forbade the bearing of arms. (Conspicuous arms, anyway. I had no doubt that he'd concealed various types of weaponry about his person. Unless you knew which parts of him to avoid, it made snuggling thoroughly unpleasant.) Behind a painting of a desert scene, I found a safe and cracked the combination easily. Inside lay tidy bundle after tidy bundle of letters, sorted by sender and tied with color-coded ribbons.

The gold-ribbon-bound ones on top formed part of his cover story. Pretending to be Skovlander aristocrats, Mother and Father wrote long, chatty missives about supposed family and friends in Arvaedh. They urged _him_ to take good care of his health and not to stay out too late at parties, and, please, for the love of everything holy, don't involve yourself in any more political activities! As far as I could tell, they were having a little too much fun playing warm, fuzzy, approachable parents. Rolling my eyes, I tossed those letters aside.

Black ribbon appeared correlated with the official House seal, so I carefully undid the knot – one of Father's twisty contortions – and systematically read through the messages. The older ones were straightforward requests for updates from the Patriarch's private secretary. In the beginning, _his_ primary mission was to recover Grandfather and kill or capture me. (House leadership wasn't picky about the latter point.) As the letters progressed, however, the Patriarch began to order _him_ to take a more active role in Iruvian-Akorosian relations. Around the time we assassinated Ronia Helker, the Patriarch wrote in his own hand, commanding _him_ to recover her battle plans.

_Why's everyone after these plans?_ I asked Grandfather. _She was just a retired general. There's no guarantee that the Immortal Emperor will even consider her ideas._

Typically, it didn't bother to answer.

One last, smaller bundle of letters tied with red ribbon in a different type of tortuous knot consisted of _his_ correspondence with Elstera Avrathi. She reported that she'd requested a couple agents from the Hadrakin to hunt for the battle plans. In the meantime, to distract the Imperium from the Iruvia situation, she and _he_ would rile up the pro-Skovlander independence faction. That went a long way towards explaining their meetings with Brynna Skyrkallan, although I had to wonder how much the Skovlander Consul knew about their motives.

Satisfied with my reconnaissance, I retied the knots, returned the letters to the safe, and slipped out of the townhouse, leaving everything exactly as I'd found it.

* * *

Back at the railcar, Ash and I found Faith taunting Sleipnir with a bone. When she saw us, she let it drop from limp fingers (Sleipnir seized it and ducked under the railcar) and collapsed into her chair as if exhausted. If I didn't know better, I might have assumed that she dozed off while Ash and I updated each other.

"If we find the battle plans, we can trade them to Ruka for Na'ava," I finished.

With his extensive personal knowledge of crazy cultists, Ash disagreed. "It's unlikely that Ruka would sell out Na'ava. Although I do agree that we should figure out what happened to the plans. If nothing else, we can deliver them to the Zayanas and collect that last coin."

One of Faith's eyes fluttered open. "Mmmmmm, provoking a war could be our legacy," she sighed contentedly.

"That's a good point," remarked Ash.

No, no, it really wasn't. "Uhhhh, this is _my_ home we're talking about."

They exchanged glances that said they didn't understand what the problem was.

Faith's eyelids drooped shut again. "Oh well. In that case, we can plant rumors that Ronia kept important information on her at all times, so the best way to find the battle plans is to figure out how and where she died and what happened to her body. Then we make Na'ava waste preposterous amounts of time researching Ronia's death. She'll get more and more invested, and when she finally dives into a certain canal under a certain bridge in Six Towers, that water demon friend of Isha's can eat her!"

Surprisingly for the source, it wasn't a bad strategy. The three of us set to work concocting anecdotes about Ronia Helker's extreme paranoia and distrust of safes and her conviction that any secret worth keeping was also worth taking to the death. Under the circumstances, it was entirely plausible that she toted her battle plans around with her and that they were still on her body. Faith visited Cricket and hinted at entire banquets of tasty, juicy electroplasm if the little ghost would stake out Rowan Bridge and watch for anyone investigating General Helker's demise.

Not long thereafter, Cricket materialized in the railcar and reported, "There's a boat full of people dragging a net through the river! I think they're looking for something!"


	32. Na'ava Diala

Even all the way across the railcar from Faith, I could hear her merry cry: "Why, that's _excellent_ news! Thank you, dear!"

Cricket's expectant voice reminded her, "You promised food?"

"Not _now_, dear," chided the Whisper. "_Afterwards_. Don't you know it's rude to keep people waiting?"

If I'd been Cricket, I'd have seized that point to insist on prompt payment, but the little ghost only pouted and drifted after her obediently as she skipped into the hallway outside our compartments.

Tap-dancing exuberantly on the scraggly carpet, she sang out, "A-aaaash! Iiiiiisha! Iruvia awaits!"

Did she think she was a travel agent? "Iruvia awaits"? I was pretty sure that Iruvia remained utterly indifferent to Ash and wanted nothing to do with Faith. As for me – well, I supposed the subpopulation comprising my House and its allies took a personal interest in my travel plans….

"Come ooooon, kids!" Faith urged. "If Isha will go not to Iruvia, then Iruvia – at least the most crucial, the most critical, the most _consequential_ part of it – will come to Isha!"

Was it too much to hope that Na'ava Diala would slit _Faith's_ throat?

* * *

Just before we reached Six Towers, our crew split up to avoid attracting Hadrakin attention. Shuffling into an abandoned mansion like a beggar seeking shelter, I sprinted up the stairs two at a time until I reached the balcony on the third floor. From that vantage point, I could just discern Faith draped against a weeping willow by the canal in an attitude of extreme boredom. One street over, Ash prowled across the rooftops in search of our target. Naturally, the clouds started spitting an icy, needle-like rain that slowed his progress to a crawl as he fought to keep his footing.

As Cricket had reported, a small craft crept along the canal near Rowan Bridge, carrying two boat operators, a Whisper with arcane sigils, and two thugs who systematically trawled the depths with a large net – but no one who resembled an assassin. Their Hadrakin supervisors had to be nearby, though.

From behind the curtain of willow branches, Faith listlessly waggled her fingers, as if so drained by ennui that she could hardly move. At the signal, Cricket lifted off the bridge and drifted in wide circles over the canal, spiraling lazily towards the boat.

Alerted by some arcane sense, the Whisper on the boat spun around, clenched her lightning hook in both hands, and blasted an arc of lightning right at the little ghost. Blinding light exploded around Cricket like a cage of white fire. Stiffening as if electrocuted, she threw her head back and _shrieked_, a terrible sound of pain and terror that shredded the night. Both boat operators cringed and clapped their hands to their ears, and the engine sputtered out before a thug seized one of the operators by the front of her shirt. He growled something, then hurled her down in disgust, nearly capsizing the boat. She and her partner scrambled to restart the motor.

"It's just a ghost," pronounced the Whisper in a clear, dismissive voice. "Nothing to worry about."

When she lowered her lightning hook, the white fire flickered out, leaving only a dim, ragged afterglow where Cricket had been. Whimpering and trailing a glittering shower of electroplasm, the wounded ghost limped back to Faith, who soothed her and drained some of her own essence to patch her up.

Just then, Ash straightened from his crouch so he was silhouetted against the grey clouds for a split second. Urgently, he signaled, _Target acquired. Target acquired._

_ Coming_, I signed back.

Flopped against the tree trunk, Faith didn't acknowledge either of us, but all of a sudden, every single ghost within two blocks of the canal perked up, bared its teeth, and howled viciously. As if the boat had transformed into a spirit well, they all streaked as if _sucked_ towards the canal, where they hovered in great, glowing blue walls along the banks, hollow eyes fixed on the search party. Turning around and around and trying to keep them all in sight at the same time, the Whisper looked as if she were beginning to regret taking this job.

She wasn't the only one. A quivering Cricket was pressed to Faith's side like a terrified dog.

With the boat party and hopefully the Hadrakin thus distracted, I pelted down the street and up onto Ash's roof, where I cautiously crept over the broken shingles to join him by a chimney. Silently, he pointed at what was once a nice two-story house a couple blocks from the canal. Soaring above its roof was an octagonal cupola with a broken weather-vane, splintered wooden trim, and arched windows – behind which lurked a dark figure that constantly scanned its surroundings.

A rooftop approach was out of the question. _Attack from below?_ I signed at Ash.

_Yes_, he replied_._

Creeping up to the house, we flattened ourselves against the pillars that framed the front gate and craned our heads to survey the cupola again.

One instant it was dark and silent, a stately presence in the night sky.

The next, it was completely surrounded by Faith's specters. Through their rippling, translucent bodies, I could just make out the dark figure backing away from the windows.

That was the opening we needed. Dashing across the front yard, we eased open the front door, tiptoed across the foyer, and made a beeline for two different staircases. My way turned out to be faster.

When I burst into the cupola, a middle-aged, hard-faced Iruvian woman raked her eyes contemptuously over my face and enunciated in Hadrathi into thin air, "Ruka, I've found Signy Anixis and she's going to kill me."

I stuttered to a halt. Didn't she know that she'd just signed her partner's death warrant?

Message sent, Na'ava Diala grinned at me in grim triumph. Steel caught and threw off little flashes of blue light as she slowly, deliberately unsheathed her saber.

In response, I whipped out my own sword (not Grandfather, which I didn't trust against its own asset) and darted forward, testing her reflexes. She parried smoothly and flowed into a riposte, which I counter-parried easily. Within the confined space of the cupola, we circled each other, searching for an opening. The Hadrakin was a brilliant fencer, almost as good as I, and if I ignored the part where we needed to murder her and rip out her soul for Irimina to torture, this was almost fun.

Without warning, Na'ava yanked out a pistol with her left hand.

Now that was just unfair. Not even Mylera's sword masters, who loved to surprise us, trounce us, and then berate us for lack of imagination, brought _firearms_ to fencing bouts. Note to self: Train my students to fight ambidextrous foes who play by no discernible rules of conduct.

Before Na'ava could shoot me, a flurry of motion heralded Ash's arrival. Faster than I could react, she spun around and shot him at point-blank range. With a yelp, he clapped a hand to his side, where a jagged crack now rent his armor.

In the split second when her attention was on Ash, I lunged under Na'ava's guard and thrust at her side, piercing her armor with the force of my blow. A thin line of blood trickled down her hip, but she barely seemed to notice. Instead, she immediately counterattacked.

Meanwhile, Ash had gotten his own pistol out. Another _crack_ rang out in the cupola, and a bullet sped past my ear to strike her full in the shoulder.

She stumbled a little at the impact but didn't even cry out. As blood poured from the wound and soaked her shirt, a fanatical joy transfigured her face, and in her eyes I read only a rapturous "Today is a good day to die."

Recognizing and empathizing with religious zealotry, Ash actually hesitated.

While he wrestled down his crisis of conscience, I rammed my sword deep into Na'ava's chest. Using her own body to trap my blade in place, she swung her saber at my torso, the razor-sharp edge finding the gap in my armor just under my armpit.

I didn't even try to dodge. Instead, gritting my teeth against the pain, I grappled her, leaned in close, and hissed viciously in her ear, "Don't _ever_ call me that." Then I tried and failed to shove her backwards off my sword.

Her smile broadened.

But before she could repeat the name, Ash marched over, unscrewing a jar of electroplasm in preparation for his life-essence-sucking ritual. "You Iruvians seem to have acquired a huge number of enemies," he informed her. "A shocking number, really." Despite his words, his face betrayed deep regret at what we were there to do. But profit won out, as it always did with Ash, and he shot her a second time.

Tossing aside her saber and trying to staunch the bleeding with one hand, she glared hatefully at him and returned fire.

In a flash, I leaped sideways, blocking the blow with my own body. The bullet punched through my armor and creased my side, and I cried out sharply.

"Oh, next time I recommend dodging those!" Face bright with malice, Faith skipped into the cupola and bashed Na'ava on the back of the skull with her lightning hook. Far from being felled, the Hadrakin twisted her arm around and fired blindly.

"My dress!" exclaimed Faith indignantly. "You tore my dress!"

And then, because why _shouldn't_ we pack everyone into one tiny space for hand-to-hand combat, who should roar into the room but the other Hadrakin assassin?

Leaving my sword stuck in Na'ava's chest, I yanked out my own pistol, pivoted, and shot Ruka before she could utter a single word.

"Isha!" shouted Ash. "She's not our target! _Shoot the_ _target_!"

At the same time, Ruka spoke in a voice that dripped with venom: "The traitor Signy Anixis."

Thank goodness she used Hadrathi. I prowled towards her, intending to silence her before she could switch to Akorosian.

"We have a _mission_ here, Isha!" Ash yelled.

Without taking my eyes off Ruka, I snapped, "Just kill her."

With one last regretful sigh, Ash put away his jar, pinned Na'ava to the floor, and drew his dagger.

Out of the blue – literally – Faith's swarm of ghosts roared in through the cracked windows.

"Run!" Ash called to Ruka. "I don't really want to kill you!"

But it was too late. One particularly agile ghost sank into her body, which twitched horribly for a few seconds. Then her eyes opened wide, and she stared around the room as if she had no idea what was happening, and frantically scrambled out the nearest window. Faith made a quick gesture, and the rest of the swarm dove after her.

Abandoning Na'ava to my crewmates, I vaulted over the windowsill, half-skidded, half-tumbled down the roof, caught my balance on the edge of the eaves, and sprinted after Ruka.

"Isha!" Ash bellowed after me. "What are you doing? _She's not the target!_ Isha!" And then, sounding bewildered: "Faith? Faith! Come back here!"

The ghost possessing Ruka tried desperately to protect its newfound body, but luckily it didn't know any self-defense skills. We ended up grappled on the gutter, each straining to fling the other off, and then Ruka's foot slipped on the wet metal and the two of us plummeted off the roof. Midair, I desperately tried to orient myself so Ruka would hit the cobblestones first.

There was a horrible crunch.

All the breath was smashed out of me.

I found myself sprawled on top of Ruka in a jumble of arms and legs while she moaned and flailed weakly. Stunned, I struggled to push myself up, noting through a haze that my left arm wasn't supporting my weight.

A second later, the pain hit. I'd broken my arm in the fall, and now it was curved like a scythe and most definitely out of commission.

Well, that was inconvenient but not incapacitating. Grimly, I rolled far enough to one side to free a dagger from my belt, and unceremoniously stabbed Ruka through the neck. As the life drained from her body, the disappointed ghost rose with a despondent wail and vanished into the fog.

From inside the house came the sound of footsteps pounding down stairs and Ash shouting, "Faith! Come back! Faith, get back here!" A short pause. Then, incredulously, "Faith, Faith, what is this? How is a ghost possessing you? I thought you were this great – " The rest of his sentence was drowned out by the crackle of a lightning hook charging to capacity. "We have a ghost to extract! You've gotten yourself possessed, Isha is murdering someone I want to know more about – _what is going on here_?"

The ensuing blast and blaze of light practically flattened me again.

Then Faith's voice chided, "Be careful with those, Ash. They're dangerous."

No response.

I should go check on them, shouldn't I?

After some amount of awkward scrabbling, I managed to roll off Ruka's body and push myself halfway into a sitting position with my good arm. That was as far as I got before Faith propelled a twitching, charred-looking Ash onto the porch.

Brushing out her skirts, she directed, "Guard Isha while I find a cab – oh!" Her exclamation contained pure frustration. "Will you _look_ at the blood on this silk! Seriously, the two of you had better not have ruined _another_ pink dress. These really don't come cheap. I spent _ages_ saving up coin for this one…." Still grumbling, she shoved Ash in my direction and flounced towards the nearest major thoroughfare.

While we waited, Ash and I clumsily searched Ruka's body but found nothing useful. Then again, his eyes were rolling around their sockets and I still couldn't breathe properly, so who knew what we missed?

After Faith bundled us into an obliging cab, she made an airy hand gesture and directed her specters against the party still blissfully dredging the canal. Leaning heavily against the window, I watched blankly as the ghosts possessed some of them while the rest scattered in search of spirit wardens.

The entire way home, Ash kept slurring half-formed questions at me about the nature of the Hadrakin and why I'd abandoned our mission to go after Ruka. I pretended not to understand him.


	33. Alternative Medicine

After the cabbie dropped us off, we wended through the Old Rail Yard with arms linked for support, Ash sandwiched between Faith and me. As we hobbled past one of Cortland's lairs, Faith merrily flapped her free hand at a Lost runner, a young girl playing hopscotch seemingly idly along the rusty tracks. "Do be a dear and go to the Leaky Bucket and invite Sawbones to stay at our place for a few days, will you?" Without bothering to check if the runner obeyed, she remonstrated with Ash, "See? This is what happens when you don't dodge the bullets! We have to host houseguests at the last minute!"

Having regained some modicum of coherence, Ash retorted, "No, I was electrocuted by your crazy – what exactly electrocuted me? I don't remember."

Faith nearly dropped him in shock. I hissed when the unexpected movement jostled my bad arm, and she unapologetically returned to formation. "You mean my _lightning hook_?" she gasped.

"Yes!"

"Those things are _dangerous_!"

"I am well aware of that situation!"

Helping him up the steps of our railcar, she reassured him condescendingly, "You'll get better at it eventually." He snorted and rolled his eyeballs (or maybe that was another convulsion). "But think not that I failed to notice your noble rescue. You have redeemed yourself as a daring, dashing adventurer, my knight in shining armor."

In response, Ash flung open the door so hard that he nearly triggered one of my traps. It took him four tries, but eventually he managed to find the switch and fumble on the lights.

"Although – does armor shine in Doskvol?" asked Faith with exaggerated consternation, stopping right smack in the middle of the doorway. "It's so grimy and grey here…."

I elbowed her out of the way so I could enter. While she struck a calculatedly contemplative pose, I hauled a chair over to the table, sank into it, and gingerly laid my broken arm on the table. From the tightness of the sleeve, I could tell that it had already swollen up, and I ran an experimental finger under the cuff, trying to determine if we'd have to cut off my shirt.

Ash's voice interrupted my examination. "Are we supposed to hate the Hadrakin?" he mused, pacing back and forth like a jerky puppet. When I glanced up at him, I nearly yelped: His whole face was covered in red, blistering, oozing burns going black at the edges. He, blissfully, did not seem to be well aware of that situation. "They seemed to be here because they were afraid we'd invade them."

"Totally unjustified," interjected Faith. She straightened the bow on her chair and stepped back to critique the effect. "I mean, our crew is _good_, but I'm not sure we're good enough to take on an entire vassal nation."

Ash ignored her, although that might have been because his entire body spasmed for a good half minute. "In any case," he continued when he could speak again, "those battle plans would be interesting. I didn't see them on Ronia's body, but I guess we didn't have much time to look."

Unless I'd missed something major, that was the rumor _we'd_ spread to lure in the Hadrakin. I objected, "I thought we made that up."

His chagrin provided all the confirmation I needed.

Faith, naturally, couldn't resist rubbing metaphorical salt into very real physical wounds. "I'm sorry, young disciple," she lectured, wagging a finger at him, "but once you start believing your own lies, you're but a step away from a slow and inevitable descent into madness and despair."

I eyed Ash. If anything, continued proximity to Faith would be what drove him into madness and despair.

"But never fear!" she exhorted him blithely. "Our sweet and gracious doctor friend will soon grace us with his sweet presence, and he will make everything better! That is – provided we ply him with plenteous portions of whiskey. I'll go procure some!" This she proceeded to do, although given how quickly she returned, I had my doubts as to the quality of liquor she obtained.

A knock sounded at the door, tentatively as if the visitor weren't entirely sure he had the right railcar and dreaded the reception if he'd erred. Which only went to show that he didn't know Faith well enough yet.

She happily flounced over to let him in. "Oh, Sawbones, my old friend!" Standing on tiptoe, she pecked him on the cheek, making him almost blush under his weather-beaten wrinkles. "It is so good of you to call upon – "

"Get in here," snapped Ash with uncharacteristic rudeness. "We're all terribly hurt."

The poor doctor nearly tripped over a patch of carpet when he took stock of the lot of us. "What _happened_ to you?" he exclaimed, which was a valid question given that I had an extremely broken arm, Faith was drenched in blood, and Ash looked as if he'd lost an argument with a lightning tower and a billhook.

"It was _terrible_," Faith informed him passionately. "There was a demon with giant tentacles – wait." She suddenly remembered that she'd already used that story and that, moreover, it did nothing to explain this new set of injuries.

As Sawbones laid out his instruments next to me on the table, we gave him a jumbled version of the night's events:

"I was electrocuted – "

"Faith was possessed – "

"I was shot – "

"I fell off a building – "

"What! You mean you fell _dramatically_ from the building?"

"No, I just fell off." At Sawbones's strangled grunt: "It happens."  
"You guys are no fun at all."

"_I_ thought it was quite dramatic," Ash defended me.

"Okay, it is very important to do things in the appropriate order," Faith proclaimed, cutting through the explanations and beaming at the very bemused doctor. "First, fix Isha's arm so she stops complaining. I can't abide her caterwauling any longer."

"I'm not complaining!" I protested indignantly. "It's just a broken arm! And I don't caterwaul!"

"See?" demanded Faith. "See what I mean?"

Heaving a very long, very gusty sigh, Sawbones closed his eyes for a brief moment as if appealing to every single forgotten god for patience. "Right, then. It's going to be a long night."

Indeed.

Pursuant to Faith's wishes, he bent over my forearm and began pressing it carefully with his fingertips, searching for the location of the break. I could have told him where it was: at the center of the semi-circle my arm now described. After a moment, he drew the same conclusion.

"Try to hold still, miss," he ordered. "This will hurt."

While I concentrated on locking every muscle in place, he braced my elbow on the table and clamped one hand over it, then raised my forearm straight up, seized my wrist, and _yanked_.

I screamed.

"You were saying something, Isha?" inquired Faith. "About not caterwauling?"

"Hold _still_," Sawbones ordered. "Unless you want your left arm to be shorter than your right."

Clenching my jaw, I willed myself to think of something else, anything else, while he interposed his body between my head and my arm, blocking my view as if cutting off the one sense would also sever the other.

"Hold still," he reminded me one more time.

Not being able to see made it all the worse. My thoughts skittered like a beetle on a hot stovetop. My brother broke his arm too, my mind babbled. Remember, Isha? He was riding his first pony when the Patriarch's hounds surged out of nowhere and spooked it, and it bucked him off and galloped for the stables. The fall broke his arm – his left arm, in fact. So now we matched, twins to the end. Maybe literally the end. If _he_ ever found me….

An explosion of pain. I literally felt my arm start to pull apart, and then the ends of the bones grated into place.

"Hmmm, that's unfortunate. You've broken both bones completely. I'm afraid this arm _will_ be a little shorter after all, but I'll do my best," Sawbones promised. Bracing my arm against his, he groped for a length of wood and a roll of not-quite-clean bandages. (That hadn't been what the healers used on my brother. Their starched bandages were all perfumed and infused with painkillers and hardened into a clean white cast. We'd had fun drawing on it.) Once Sawbones finished splinting my arm, he improvised a sling out of a raggedy half-shawl. "All set," he pronounced with satisfaction. "Try not to take any jobs for a while, yeah?"

"We'll see." Ash looked mutinous at the prospect of lost revenue.

Unsurprisingly, Faith seconded that. "_I'm_ fine. _I_ mostly dodged the bullets."

Deliberately not huddling over my broken arm, I straightened up and tried to speak normally. "And _I_ have an unbreakable contract to teach at the Red Sash Sword Academy." Sawbones cocked a meaningful eyebrow at the splint, his expression spitting out unspeakable expletives. "You know Mylera," I pointed out with some asperity. "Would she really accept a broken arm as an excuse?" A true scion of House Ankhayat, which ran the Vaasu School that trained our military commanders and leviathan hunter captains, Headmistress Klev had absorbed her House's stoic philosophy a little too thoroughly.

Sawbones looked as if he'd love to disagree with my assessment but really could not. With a sigh, he moved on to Ash, checking his pupils and testing his reflexes. Ash's hands still trembled alarmingly, and from time to time, his entire body spasmed.

"Speaking of the Red Sashes, Isha," said Faith, "I've noticed that in the past, you've said a little too much about our extracurriculars to your students. I know keeping secrets isn't your forte, so perhaps we should come up with a story and rehearse it beforehand. Let's see…. Oh, I have it! You made a dramatic dive out of a tower to rescue a…hmmm…."

"A falling kitten?" I suggested sarcastically, readjusting the sling to find a marginally less painful angle for my arm.

"No, to catch _me_!" Now why would I want to do _that_? "Although – a falling kitten…I do like that one. It seems very – "

"Out of character?" I asked even more sarcastically.

Ash chuckled, then winced when the motion pulled raw skin.

"Okay, so _how_ was the kitten falling? _Why_ was the kitten falling?"

"Because you threw it out of a tower!" Ash exclaimed as if it were obvious.

I burst out laughing, but cut off sharply when I jostled the splint.

Once Sawbones had bandaged the obviously scorched parts of Ash – there was nothing he could do about the convulsions, which should go away on their own (probably) – he ministered to Faith, who did, after all, have a graze from Na'ava's bullet. She seemed much more worried about ministering to her dress before the blood stained it irreparably.

Surveying our little crew, Ash exploded, "This is unacceptably slow! It will take forever to recover! _I'm_ going to try something else. If _that_ doesn't work, then, well, I guess I'll have to deal with Sawbones."

At his outburst, Faith yawned widely and addressed Sawbones (who looked as if he were trying very hard not to take offense), "Since, as my friend predicts, recovery will take forever, would you like to crash at our place for a few days? We do have a number of spare bedrooms."

Ash was still ranting away: "We should use our assets if we have them! There are ways to deal with this sort of thing, and my family happens to specialize in them!"

Eyeing all of us dubiously, Sawbones agreed with Faith, "Yes, perhaps that would be best."

"Isha, are you in?" Ash demanded abruptly.

I swiveled my head back and forth between him and my arm as Faith led Sawbones into the hallway so he could pick out his very own compartment. (Not that it made a difference – all of them were equally dark, dingy, and dirty.) Warily, I asked, "Will it involve demonic stuff?"

Ash looked incredibly irritated that I still got hung up on anti-demon racism when there was expert healing to be had. "We _are_ from Tycheros," he pointed out.

Faith's head popped back into the common room. "Yes, of course!" she gushed. "Think about it, Isha! It probably involves human sacrifices and blood rituals – do you really want your cast covered in blood?"

Ash heaved a gusty sigh on par with Sawbones's when he predicted how long this night would be. "You've seen the rituals it involves – although, don't mention that to Mom."

"Those weren't demonic in nature," I said cautiously, recalling the creepy, glowing blue runes his sister had clawed into Vhetin Kellis's back.

"Well, no." Ash sounded testy, as if that were painfully obvious. "That was a ritual for That Which Hungers. But we did test the medical procedures on demons before we…adapted them to more standard humans. In any case, I'm not the expert there but I know someone who is, so you're welcome to come along. Tomorrow morning, of course. They're closed now." Turning on his heel, he started to hobble towards his own compartment.

I looked down at the dirty bandages of my splint. Waves of pain pounded through my arm, and I could practically feel the ends of my bones growing together crooked. I did _not_ want one arm to be shorter than the other.

"_Fine_." I grudgingly admitted defeat. "That's acceptable."

* * *

First thing the next morning, while Faith and Sawbones were enjoying a cozy chat over tea (Faith) and whiskey-spiked coffee (Sawbones), Ash and I entered the demon lair. In addition to jerking like a marionette, Ash literally clinked with each step, since he'd insisted on filling four or five leather pouches with our shiniest silver slugs to show off to his mother.

Aforementioned demon den looked surprisingly mundane, like any typical, non-Tycherosi infirmary. The front door with its frosted glass window opened directly onto a waiting area decorated with tasteful potted fungi. At the far end, the Slanes' secretary (a young woman with an open, friendly face and no obvious demon tell, probably chosen to avoid scaring off customers) received patients from behind a wooden counter. As soon as she recognized Ash, she sent us upstairs to Mistress Zamira's office.

So far, so good. Everything seemed normal enough. I could do this.

I followed Ash into his mother's office, hanging back by the door while I assessed the situation. At first glance, she had no obvious demon tell either, and I started to breathe a sigh of relief.

Then she glanced up from her account book, caught sight of her son, and leaped to her feet. "Ash! What _happened_ to you?" she exclaimed, absolutely horrified. Hurrying around her desk, she gently touched his scarred cheek.

The movement revealed a scaly, muscular, black, snake-like _forked tail_.

Swallowing a squeak, I pressed myself against the doorframe.

If Ash heard me, he gave no sign. Instead, he produced purse after purse and weighed them in his palm, letting the slugs jingle merrily, watching closely as his mother's eyes lit up. "I had a problem with an attunement ritual that went a little awry. In any case, it was all in the line of duty. Very profitable duty," he explained with studied casualness.

"That's good," she replied, raising her voice over the music of hard coin.

"And I would like to convert that profit into dealing with this problem. Other healers in town are so _tediously_ slow, and we – " he gestured between himself and me – "are not very patient people." (I might be willing to learn patience, just to avoid demonic infirmaries in the future.) "But we're very wealthy people, and that is why we're here."

She glanced at me, pretended not to notice my little start, pulled down a speaking tube, and gave orders to prepare two rooms.

"This is Isha," Ash introduced me.

"It's always a pleasure to meet one of my son's friends," she said warmly, waving her tail in what might be a friendly gesture.

My parents had drilled manners into me. I pasted on an equally warm smile. "How do you do, Mistress Slane?"

Satisfied with the pleasantries, she returned to her desk to draw up paperwork for our treatment. Craning his head to read her handwriting upside down and make sure she didn't overcharge us, Ash remarked, "Isha and I are surprised by all the dock space the Hive accumulated. Do you have any idea what they wanted it for? They don't have a leviathan hunter, do they?"

Scribbling rapidly, his mother shook her head. "Not that I'm aware of. I don't know what they were planning on bringing in there, but Tess is working on it. I have every confidence that if there is anything worth knowing, she will find it out." The pride in her voice was almost palpable.

Ash almost pouted. "We've been doing quite well for ourselves too," he bragged. Tidily lining up the pouches on her desk, he gave her a quick rundown of our own accomplishments, painted in the best possible light, plus a detailed account of every sum of money we'd earned and how he'd bargained for payment. Then he added, "We can help you too. For a significant price, of course."

Pushing the paperwork across the desk for his inspection, his mother frowned and spoke slowly. "Yeeees, actually. There _is_ something. We should meet sometime to discuss it. Presumably with all your associates present, of course."

"Yes, of course. Just let us know the time." After perusing the documents, Ash initialed several times and signed the last page with a flourish.

"Ahazu will be ready for you downstairs in the second examination room," she directed him. "And Isha, you – "

I hastily interrupted. "I can go with Ash. I don't mind waiting. I can see Ahazu after she finishes with him."

That arrangment suited Mistress Slane just fine. She didn't mind freeing up a healer to treat another (paying) patient. "Very well. Ash knows where to go."

As we made our way down the stairs, Ash asked curiously, "Is it the demon part that bothers you?"

I pressed myself to the wall as one of the staff, a young man with coal-black goat horns sprouting out of coiled crimson hair, passed us in the narrow stairwell. He smiled and nodded at Ash, who nodded back.

"Yes," I replied curtly when the part-demon had vanished around a corner.

Ash scrutinized me as if I were an account book under audit. "Surely you've seen other Tycherosi before."

"They're not very common in U'Duasha." Off the top of my head, I could only think of a handful, all merchant class. They tended to live across the city from me, close to the craftspeople who produced luxury goods for export.

"Ah. Well, we're really no more corrupt – or mad – than the average Doskvolian," declared the part-demon assassin who harvested our murder victims for life essence for his family's cultic rituals.

Diplomatically, I stayed silent as I followed him into the examination room. (I did almost tread on his heels in my anxiety to get out of the hallway and away from the Tycherosi nurses though.)

"Really, Isha," Ash informed me impatiently, "I assure you it's the gathering part that's, well." Mercifully, he stopped talking as Ahazu greeted him and got to work on his face. I perched uncomfortably on a chair in the corner while waiting for my turn.

Although the Tycherosi healer had eyes that were entirely silver – no whites, no irises, no pupils, just a uniform, flat silvery sheen – I had to admit that she worked wonders on my arm. Tsking at Sawbones's handiwork, she cut off the bandages, realigned the bones, and cocooned my arm in a sparkling white cast. She even provided a clean, professional-looking sling.

As we left the Slanes' infirmary, Ash told me smugly, "You see, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

My extremely intelligent response was, "Uhhhhhgrhhhh." From time to time I poked my arm, reassuring myself that it hadn't metamorphized into a scaly tentacle while I wasn't looking.

* * *

When we approached the railcar, the sounds of Faith and Sawbones's conversation drifted through the window.

"I swear," the doctor was saying tipsily, "the three of you get more injured than my entire gang put together. And we're at war! How did Isha fall off a _building_?"

Faith's amused voice replied, "Well, you see, there was a kitten, and it was yowling in the most _annoying_ manner. So I threw it out a window, but Isha, being her usual pet-loving self, dove off the tower to catch the kitten, curled up in a ball, landed on the street, and mostly – " She stopped, giggling too hard to finish the sentence. When she caught her breath again, she assured him, "The kitten was fine. Although it did nibble on her a little bit. I think it was annoyed at having been caught."

Tiptoeing up to the window, I peered in to see Sawbones nodding dubiously while Sleipnir pawed at his calves and begged for scraps. There was very obviously no cat of any variety in sight. "You all take care of yourselves, yeah?" the doctor instructed. "We're fond of you."

"Yessir!" Faith saluted sloppily. "There will be much care-taking. I promise that in the future, any kittens I toss out the window will be out of Isha's line of sight – or on the first floor."

Sawbones drained another shot of whiskey as if he had no idea how he'd report any of this to Bazso.


	34. Promises Kept

I'd been honest when I told Sawbones that Mylera wouldn't deem broken bones just cause for delinquency, and so my cast and I showed up on time at the Red Sash Sword Academy. I even improvised a lesson on how to fence with an injured arm, which seemed like a useful life skill for both the upper echelons of street toughs and the young (non-Anixis) nobles who sometimes found themselves in duels over affairs of honor. (Living members of House Anixis never got into un-premeditated duels, especially not over ill-defined concepts such as "honor.")

What I did not do was spew Faith's kitten story at my students, who, while curious, had learned early on that Miss Glass did _not_ tolerate prying. In any case, they were mostly hoping for a grisly story, which I invented on the spot, and that was that.

Since Ash and I had decided to blame the Hadrakin for our recent murders, I casually mentioned within earshot of my class that I'd heard Iruvian assassins were searching for General Helker's battle plans. I knew that the nobles would immediately question their parents about the rumor, and the ensuing investigation would spread it further and take some heat off our crew.

* * *

Unfortunately, Ash and I couldn't disseminate disinformation fast enough to prevent the Bluecoats from grabbing Nyryx for interrogation, an act that provoked a passionate debate over whether we were obligated to bail her out.

According to Ash, "We have to save Nyryx! She's been a good friend, and we owe it to our friends not to let them fall into – "

"She is _not_ our friend!" I interrupted. "Anyone who would do something as horrible as buy a Hollowed body is not worth our coin."

"Nyryx is our strongest ally in the war against the Church," he pointed out, as if I cared about his and Faith's little vendetta.

"We don't need allies like her," I told him flatly. "That's not who we are."

Changing tack, he demanded, "What do you have against Nyryx anyway?"

Did he need to ask? "She _bought a Hollowed body_! That's – that's – that's reprehensible!"

"And what exactly is wrong with a Hollowed body?"

In the heat of the moment, I couldn't articulate any more cogent moral argument than: "It's just wrong! You can't do things like that! It's almost as bad as being a demon!"

Ash was actually taken aback. "What?" he yelped. "Okay, that is an entirely separate conversation!"

"No, it really isn't! Didn't I tell you how they make Gualim? They take perfectly good human beings and they – I mean the Demon Princes – make them dream about a spire and go there and get Hollowed and – "

Behind us, the common room door banged shut.

"Wait!" Ash cut off my lecture on the intricacies of the creation of U'Duashan City Guardians. "Wait, where did Faith go?"

While the two of us were bickering, Faith had snatched a pouchful of slugs from our coffers and slammed out of the railcar. As one of the local drunks informed me later, she popped up at the Docks precinct and (easily) bribed a Bluecoat to free Nyryx and explain why he'd targeted the prostitute in the first place. It turned out that a peddler named Malik who loitered on the eastern end of the Docks with a cartful of dubious wares had tipped off the Bluecoats about how she was "a shady character what knows things."

"Oh," tsked Faith with a sententious shake of her head. "What is the Imperium coming to? If you ask me, this Malik character needs to be taught that good citizens don't lie to officers of the law."

Eyes bright at the sight of shiny slugs, the Bluecoat happily agreed that, indeed, the peddler needed a refresher course on civic virtues.

While I personally would have left Nyryx in jail, I had to confess that neutralizing Malik's potential threat to us was a good use of a second coin.

* * *

That bit of unpleasantness resolved, Ash headed to the temple to pray to That Which Hungers, and I returned to surveying _him_. Although I'd intended to suborn his servants as I had Irimina's, I quickly discovered that like Elstera, Finnley Tyrconnell selected his staff with extreme paranoia. After a great deal of hassle, I finally identified a likely candidate: a footman with a sick father who desperately needed money for medical bills. As a testament to his loyalty (and _his_ discernment), the footman kept me waiting for two days while he agonized over the betrayal, but in the end he reluctantly slipped me a copy of Finnley's social calendar.

Poring over _his_ schedule, I noticed that the number of parties was petering out, which suggested that he'd finally realized I wasn't hiding among the Doskvolian aristocracy. Telling myself that I needed to muddy the waters – but mostly because I couldn't resist messing with him – I arrayed myself in secondhand finery and showed up at the next party on his calendar. Of course he was surrounded by the usual herd of adoring hangers-on, but I lingered under a gaudy gilt sconce until he glanced my way and, just as his eyes widened, melted back into the crowd. Giggling at his confusion, I sailed on home.

* * *

While I was taunting _him_, Faith headed to the Sensorium to relax in her own inimitable way – via a memory of bloody Iruvian infighting.

Madame Keitel was just as nonplussed as my archivist. "_Why_?" she demanded after staring at Faith for a very long time.

Handing over vials of memories distilled from the Hadrakin, Faith explained flippantly, "Well, recently I was telling a story about a group of Iruvian assassins, and I became curious about how likely they were to kill themselves in a fit of intrigue." When Madame Keitel continued to goggle at her, Faith shrugged. "The mind wonders."

Holding up one of the vials and watching light filter through the electroplasm, Madame Keitel inquired, "So by 'infighting,' did you mean upper-class politics or the Iruvian underworld?"

"High-class assassinations would be ideal," Faith assured her earnestly, "but I wouldn't expect professionals to sell _those_ memories to the Sensorium."

At that, Madame Keitel gave her an inscrutable look (inscrutable to the archivist, at least; I had no doubt that Faith could have pontificated at length – and with much alliteration). "Yes," she pronounced at last. "I can probably make this work for you."

In an impressive display of initiative, the archivist managed to get his hands on the memories Faith had brought in, and he listed them for me. Although she'd returned to the crime scene too late to recover any useful fragments from Ruka, Faith had extracted some usable pieces from Na'ava, mostly murders and crazy cultic rituals. Na'ava, it appeared, had never left U'Duasha, much less Iruvia, prior to this mission. Somehow, I didn't think her Doskvolian adventure lent itself very well to a travel brochure.

"You know," remarked the archivist casually as I paid him, "Mistress Karstas is surprisingly good at makeup. She's been coming in every week for as long as I've worked there, and she's never aged a day."

That caught my attention. "How long have you been working there?"

"Ten, no, eleven years now," he corrected himself. "My wife wanted me to ask Mistress Karstas for beauty tips, but, well…." He let his voice trail off.

"I see."

Faith didn't look a day over twenty-five, which meant that she'd frequented the Sensorium since she was fourteen at the oldest. But that couldn't be right, because even to the average (_i.e._ undiscerning) eye, fourteen-year-olds looked significantly different from twenty-five-year-olds.

I resolved to take a closer look at Faith the next time I got a chance.

* * *

This turned out to be surprisingly hard, since Faith spent the next few days traipsing all over Doskvol. Keeping her promise to Tocker, she ducked in and out of banks and law firms, badgering and charming clerks until they surrendered confidential information on the Helker children. There were two, as we'd discovered in our initial surveillance of the general: The elder was a sixteen-year-old daughter named Polonia, and the younger was a son, Andrel, aged thirteen. For the moment, they were still living in the family mansion in Brightstone, guarded zealously by a prune-faced governess. After thoroughly investigating the adoption process and peppering their neighbors with questions about the children's interests and mental states, Faith "happened upon" the family solicitor in a Charterhall bar. She joined him for a drink and commiserated with him over the disarray of the Helker affairs.

"They don't have any close relatives," said the lawyer, a trusted former colleague of Tocker's. "No aunts or uncles, just extended cousins – and those are swarming like sharks. Everyone wants a piece of the estate." Morosely, he drained his whiskey in much the same way Sawbones would have. (I winced.)

Faith merely signaled the bartender to bring him another glass. "Well, that's perfectly understandable, isn't it? In my experience, sharks, being aquatic creatures, want nothing more than to invest in terrestrial property," she said in the most soothing tone possible. "But I have every confidence that such a capable, competent counselor as yourself has matters well in hand."

"Weeelll." The lawyer looked unconvinced that he deserved so much praise – or so much free liquor. "But to answer your earlier question, Polonia and Andrel inherited a fair amount, mostly from their mother, and they receive a monthly allowance from the trust. Which is overseen by a private banker Tocker trusts – trusted." He polished off another glass of whiskey. "So yes, the children are cared for. For now." Only then did he realize that he didn't actually recognize Faith. Frowning, he peered at her. "Who are you again, miss?"

Faith bounded out of her chair. "A concerned friend of the Helkers." She patted him on the arm. "Thank you ever so much for the information. You've been most helpful!"

"Wait, miss!"

But Faith was already out the door and trotting determinedly towards Six Towers. I followed her just long enough to watch her disembowel a juicy ghost and feed its electroplasm to Cricket, who swirled around her almost trustingly.

Nothing out of the ordinary there, even for Faith.

* * *

When she returned to the railcar, looking as a smug as a sea creature that had just snapped up a valuable piece of real estate, Ash was waiting.

"Faith, my mother was interested in talking to us about a business proposition. She is very wealthy," he assured her. "You might like to meet her? Anyway, she wants to meet us all."

Blushing prettily, Faith brought her fingertips up to her throat. "Ash!" she cried, simultaneously delighted and terrified. "I don't know! You're going to introduce me to your mother? But we've only known each other for such a short time! I must wear my ruffliest dress so I can make the right first impression!"

As always, Ash ignored her.

And to her credit, Mistress Slane seemed entirely unperturbed by her son's associate's sartorial choices. "Ah, this must be the whole crew," she commented when we entered her office.

Testier than usual, Ash informed her, "That should be obvious. And it should go without saying that our crew's membership is not a public matter."

He took a chair directly in front of her desk, and Faith slouched down all the way next to him and seemed to doze off, but I hovered until he waved impatiently for me to sit. I perched on the edge of a seat by the door.

"Of course." Mistress Slane inhaled and sat up straight. "So, then. I understand that you are in the business of killing people."

I thought Ash would object to her bluntness about "guildmembers of our profession," but instead he matched it. "Yes. For sufficient amounts of money."

"Good. As it happens, there is someone whom I would like removed. There is a small community of Tycherosi in Charhallow. We generally have little to do with them, because they are adherents of the Church. However – "

Ash burst out, "Why the hell would they do that?" so loudly that Faith opened one eye.

"That's an excellent question," his mother replied. "I assume it's out of hedonism and moral decadence."

Faith's eyelid drooped back shut.

"That said, they live in Charhallow, and they're probably desperate for whatever joy they can find," said Mistress Slane dismissively, echoing my archivist's views on the district. "The point is that they're disappearing."

"_Oh_." Ash drew a sharp breath.

"Normally," announced his mother, "I wouldn't care. They have abandoned us. But, on the other hand, there are very few Tycherosi in the city and we do need to look out for one another. I am also concerned that they appear to be disappearing around holidays that are important to the Church of Ecstasy, which makes me think that their curate is involved – which means that he needs to go."

Both of Faith's eyes opened this time.

"A 'curate'?" Puzzled, Ash sounded out the term.

"I think a curate is the priest of a small parish-y thing, but I don't know. I'm not very well versed in any of that." From Mistress Slane's tone, she had no intention of becoming any better versed in Church hierarchy, either.

"I have absolutely no objections to dealing with him," Ash assured her.

"Good. Six coin then?"

"Eight has been our going rate."

"I believe six is the standard in the city."

While Ash regrouped, Faith inserted smoothly, "A standard rate of pay only gets you a standard rate of success."

Ash chuckled a little before he followed up her argument. "We also provide special services. If there's anything we should investigate, that's also part of the deal."

Pursing her lips and staring blankly into space for a moment, Mistress Slane considered his offer. "If you could expose his activities to the rest of his flock, and recover them from their _ecstatic_ ways, that would be worth something."

"Two coin, perhaps?" Ash hinted.

"It could be worth two coin," she conceded.

He nodded curtly. "I'm sure we can find this out, but if you have a name for this curate, it will avoid any ambiguity."

With distaste, she enunciated, "Kender Morland."

"I have no objections," Ash repeated, and then looked expectantly at Faith and me.

I'd been fiddling nervously with my cast throughout the conversation, but now I stilled my hand and gave a shrug of acceptance.

Sighing wearily, Faith addressed me rather than Ash: "I'm always happy to help some demons."

"We're not actually demons," objected Mistress Slane.

Faith didn't even bother to glance in her direction. "As you say."

"We'll get it done," Ash promised his mother before she could retract the commission. "I am still mystified as to why any of us would want to worship the Church, although I suppose it has most of the city in its clutches, so why not some Tycherosi as well…. Is there anything else we need to know?"

She shook her head. "No, that's all I have. Presumably, that's enough to go on. You know where he is; you know who he is."  
"And that's all we need," Ash finished for her. "We'll be back when it's done."

"Good," she said, returning to her paperwork and effectively dismissing us.

To no one's surprise, I was the first one out the door.


	35. Kender Morland

"Isha! Slow down! We need to talk about logistics."

Ash's tone was one big eye roll, while Faith's voice held only compassion and empathy. "She can't slow down, Ash. If she delays, a drove of demons might depart the clinic and devour her."

I didn't bother to turn, but I did decelerate to a rapid trot so they could catch up. Together, we wound through the open-air market with its clutter of wooden stalls. "So what are the logistics?" I asked without looking at either one. "How much time do we have until the next Church holiday?"

With a shrug, Ash tipped his head at our resident Ecstatic expert. "Faith? You seem to know more about the Church than the rest of us."

Faith's green eyes widened in injured innocence. "Would an assiduous ascetic like myself be able to ascertain the details of church holidays, especially since none of their assemblies ever ascend to match that assignation?" she cried energetically.

Oh dear. She was in one of _those_ moods.

Ash widened his eyes too, meaningfully.

"Oh, very well." Capitulating with surprising speed, she darted over to a stall that sold fresh cut flowers and pretended to admire some pink floral arrangements. "Next week is, of course, Ascension Day." She sneezed noisily and jerked back from a particularly foul-smelling bouquet.

"Which _is_ a holiday, yes?" Ash clarified patiently. "It's important to the Church and hence a Tycherosi might vanish around that time?"

Regretfully shaking her head at the stall owner, Faith sighed, "That is the Church's assessment."

"All right," decided Ash as we continued on our way. "Then I propose that I question the Tycherosi community in Charhallow about the disappearances. They're more likely to talk to me than either of you. Isha – "

Before he could suggest any unpalatable activities, I preempted him: "I'll survey Morland." No matter his extracurriculars, the curate, at least, was entirely human. Human with unsavory hobbies, I could handle.

"Faith?" The third member of our crew had once again stopped by a stall, this time to admire a selection of silks. Ash called her to order. "Can you identify candidates for the next disappearance?"

In between buying enough pink ribbon to trim a dozen ballgowns, she assured him, "I assent to the task assigned."

* * *

Charhallow, which my archivist so disdained, was a roughly triangular district that huddled directly south of Crow's Foot and to the northwest of Coalridge. To an even greater extent than Crow's Foot, it was crammed with buildings – tenements that teetered like stacks of children's blocks, taverns that sagged in the most alarming way. As if unaware that they might get crushed by a collapsing wall at any moment, packs of skinny, dirty children streaked through the twisty alleys, shrieking as they played hunt-and-peek and catch-the-ghost. After the dislocations of the Unity War, the population was heavily refugee, meaning that the district endured both Hutton's anarchic pro-Skovlander-rights revolutionaries _and_ the racists who vandalized bars and shouted catchy slogans such as "No Skovs!" and "Skovs go home!" In the midst of this seethe of poverty and racial tension, a small group of Tycherosi hunkered down and labored in the stockyards and eeleries.

Following the directions of a heavily-muscled laundress, I found Morland's church in the middle of the Sheets, a neighborhood of washers, tailors, and seamstresses. His tiny, crumbling wooden shack bore no family resemblance whatsoever to the Sanctorium, that voluptuous cathedral in Brightstone. If Charhallow's house of worship had any curves, they came from warped wood, not avant-garde architectural design. Disguised as an unsuccessful seamstress, I loitered in its vicinity and casually questioned street sweepers about any strange doings. While I was chatting with a Skovlander beggar, the side door creaked open, and out shuffled a disheveled, middle-aged Akorosian man garbed in a shabby black cassock that fit him about as well as a burlap sack.

"That Morland?" I inquired in a heavy Skovlander accent, pretending to swig deeply from a hip flask.

I passed it to the beggar, who quaffed the awful moonshine I'd bought in Charhallow Market, squinted rheumy eyes at the man, and hacked up a gob of mucus. "Aye, that's him all right."

The curate let the door bang shut behind him and then bumbled eastward. A frayed satchel banged against his thigh with each step, the protrusions in the fabric suggesting the outlines of books.

"What's he got in that bag o' his?" I asked, pretending to consider robbing him.

The beggar cackled moistly. "Jist books, dearie. For service. Nuthin' worth takin'." She took another long drink and added, "He does that ev'ry week, does he. Goes to that big church with all them tops."

After a bit of mental translation, I figured out that she meant the Sanctorium, aforementioned voluptuous cathedral, which I confirmed after I bade her farewell and tailed Morland there. Indeed, curates were converging on it from all directions for what seemed like a fairly standard service, after which they attended a meeting with what must have been the church elders (at least, their cassocks were made from silk and glowed in deep reds and purples). Then, perhaps depressed by the contrast between Charhallow and Brightstone, Morland plodded back to the Sheets and drowned his thwarted career ambitions in horrible beer at his favorite pub.

* * *

Although I felt satisfied with my reconnaissance, Ash returned to the railcar in a state of extreme distress. Prowling around the common room, he growled, "It's worse than Coalridge! It's even worse than Crow's Foot! They're dirt poor and hungry and desperate and the Church is their one source of momentary escape from misery!"

Tying extra bows onto the arms of her favorite chair, Faith graced him with a fleeting glance. "Whom better to target than poor, desperate people no one will miss?"

"Did you figure out how Morland picks his victims?" he demanded in response.

"Probably." Faith's energy drained out of her, and she slumped all the way down in the chair. Her head sagged until her chin bumped into her chest.

"Aaaaand?" Ash prompted. "Did you identify his next target?"

Her voice muffled by the ruffles around her neck, Faith mumbled, "There's a young woman – sorry, Isha, I meant 'a young part-demon' – named Kallysta. She's been having the worst time. She was floating from job to job, and then she got fired and kicked out of her flophouse, so she stayed with a friend, but then the friend got kicked out too, and she's been living on the streets since then. She clings to the Church as the one bright spot in her life. I really can't _fathom_ why Morland would pick her of all people."

Ash and I exchanged glances. "Did you find out his vice, Isha?"

"Yes. He's an alcoholic. Most nights, he goes to The Old Rasp to drink among his parishioners. They treat him."

"It just gets worse and worse," Ash snarled. "Well, we have a reputation to uphold."

"Mmmm, it does seem poetic for the Poets to murder him there," Faith agreed.

"The Poets?" I asked before I could stop myself.

With a malicious gleam in her eyes, she explained, "Yes, the Poets! We serve as the agents of poetic justice! Incidentally, did you know that the term 'poetic justice' originates in – "

"His parishioners could discover a slightly different version of the truth," Ash loudly cut off her etymological lecture, "that turns them against both the curate _and_ the Church. The curate could commit diabolical acts that are anathema to human decency. Torturing children, um…." He quickly ran out of ideas for what might offend human decency. "We can come up with whatever we desire."

Faith seamlessly transferred her enthusiasm to this new endeavor. "We can spread rumors about torture to the victims' loved ones! Screams can be heard from the curate's house at all hours of the night!"

"And then we bring them all to the bar where they turn against him in a fit of drunken rage," I finished.

"His health certainly won't fare very well," pronounced Ash with satisfaction. "I can certainly think of many stories of sadism – " he looked pointedly at Faith – "and abhorrent behaviors."

She gave him a look of shocked innocence, which he ignored.

"Come on, Isha," he ordered. "This is a Slide job."

Faith's protestations that she could think of even _more_ stories of sadism and behaviors abhorrent to human decency trailed us halfway across the Old Rail Yard.

* * *

To our surprise, drumming up fervor among Morland's flock proved well-nigh impossible. His parishioners were convinced that they knew what had happened to their vanished friends and family.

"She was taken into the arms of the Church," whispered one, making a ritual gesture of reverence. "She was selected to be Hollowed. It's a great honor, miss."

When we tried to convince them that Morland was disappearing people for his own nefarious purposes, they grew increasingly hostile.

"He's a good man, Kender Morland is."

"Here now, I won't hear any talk against Curate Morland."

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave now."

"I can't believe them!" Ash fumed. "They're all just going along with him! They're all _enabling_ him!"

In disgust, he enlisted a small band of Tycherosi from outside Charhallow, plus a handful of locals who _weren't_ resigned to losing loved ones. The star recruit was an aspiring actor who was just starting to wrangle some critical notice under the stage name of Vey Weaver. (His real name was the unpronounceable and un-rememberable Oryxus, and he lived in a commune on the edge of the Ease in Silkshore.) Relevantly for us, he'd just played a ghost who possessed his best friend in order to avenge his poisoning by the best friend's sister. (Suffice to say that things didn't go so well for anyone involved; it _was_ a tragedy, after all.) For the price of one coin, Vey agreed to reprise this role on the stage of The Old Rasp.

We provided him with the information he needed to impersonate one of Morland's victims, plus a small stipend for cosmetics and costuming. Then we paid the rest of our miscreants to show up at The Old Rasp and act as agents provocateurs. At the sight of hard slugs, they were more than happy to oblige.

* * *

And so it was that on one rainy evening (what other kind was there in Doskvol?), I found myself perched on a wobbly stool in a horrible pub with a leaky roof. Between tables, icy water dripped into sawdust that hadn't been changed in months. In the entire bar, there was a single unbroken chair – and naturally, the parishioners reserved it for their beloved curate, who was draining mug after mug of revolting "beer" with grim determination while ignoring the antics of Ash's Tycherosi. The tightness of his jaw suggested that he couldn't quite tune out the two sitting nearby, one of whom was loudly doubting the sexual exploits of the other.

"Enough!" growled the bartender at last. "Get out."

They replied with the most offensive (and anatomically implausible) suggestion imaginable.

By this point, half of the people in the bar were eyeing the door warily, debating whether to leave, while the other half were eyeballing the confrontation hopefully, wondering when it would turn into a brawl so they could all pile in.

In the midst of all this, a local shuffled up to Morland and whispered urgently in his ear, with many pointed looks in our direction. With a sigh, the curate put down his mug, as if preparing to leave.

Sliding off my stool, I hustled to the bar and bought an entire round of beer, all of which I spiked with the Black Lotus I'd bought from Mylera using my employee discount. (I'd selected the drug for its hallucinatory effects, which would hopefully slow Morland's reaction time when the bar fight broke out and thus make him easier to kill.) Heaving up the tray so everyone could see it, I sang out, "This round is in honor of the Church of the Ecstasy of the Flesh!"

Cheers rose from all corners, the would-be brawlers temporarily distracted by free booze.

As was only proper, I served Morland first, bobbing an awkward little curtsey and sloshing beer onto the tray while he scrutinized my features. "I haven't seen you around, miss," he said, not bothering to hide his suspicion.

Shifting the tray onto my cast to free my right hand, I stuck it out for him to shake and explained with all earnestness (plus a strong Skovlander accent), "I just moved to Charhallow, sir – I mean, reverend sir! I went to your sermon last week and it opened my eyes about how I should live my life! I am so grateful to you!"

Morland nodded in a perfunctory way, as if he heard such testaments to his persuasive powers all the time. Selecting the cleanest-looking mug for himself and handing another to me, he spoke a ritual blessing over the drinks, raised his halfway, and looked at me expectantly.

I was all too aware of large Tycherosi males – and not Ash's bunch, either – pressing up around me, staring intently at me. There was no way I could avoid the toast, not if I wanted Morland to drink. Faking a servile smile, I hoisted my mug. "To the Church!" I cried. Throwing my head back so everyone could see me put the glass to my lips, I glugged noisily at the same time as my target.

Their suspicions thus allayed, the locals eagerly lifted the tray off my cast. I heard little clinks of glass as people began to pass around the mugs, but I hovered by the curate, beseeching him for guidance and observing him closely for signs of intoxication. As the minutes dragged on, though, I started to lose interest.

The bar – why had I thought it looked horrible before? It was _beautiful. _The bluish light from the bare electroplasmic bulbs sparkled through every raindrop that fell from the ceiling and limned every blade of straw on the floor. And just look at the coarse, picturesque costumes on the pubgoers, the way they clumped up into little knots at the bar, the way they leaned towards one another, chatting, arguing, laughing, gesticulating. The Old Rasp was a painter's dream, was what it was.

I babbled some stock saying I'd heard at the Sanctorium service, or maybe I made it up on the spot, but whatever it was, it seemed to work because the curate mouthed it back at me…. Faith! Faith would know! There she was!

Swaying to the back table where Faith dozed over a full mug of beer, I half-clambered, half-fell onto a stool next to her and dropped my head on her shoulder. Those ruffles were really nice and soft. Who'd have thought Faith would make such a good pillow? Although – pillows _were _ruffly, weren't they? The ones that weren't embroidered?

"There, there." For once, Faith sounded amused, not bored at all. "Don't worry," she assured someone over my head. "She's fine."

Rotating my head sideways, I spotted Ash staring at me worriedly. Why was he worried about me? _He_ was the one sitting next to a burly Tycherosi and plying him with drinks. I grinned and waved, trying to sign "I'm fine" at him, except that I couldn't remember how it was supposed to go.

Ash shook his head slightly, then made a complicated hand signal at someone else. I couldn't remember its meaning, even though I was pretty sure I'd invented it. But it didn't matter. I was too comfortable to care.

A minute or an hour later, Vey Weaver walked jerkily into the room, like a human body piloted by a ghost that couldn't quite remember how to move in the flesh. Who was he playing this time? Oh yes – one of Morland's victims. Sev-something-or-other. In fact, Vey looked an awful lot like that dude sitting next to Ash. I was about to comment on that when the actor staggered over to a man at the bar who was minding his own business, bellowed "Murderer!" and wrapped his hands around the guy's throat.

Huh?

The locals froze.

The dude next to Ash opened his eyes so wide I thought his eyeballs would drop right out.

"What's going on?" I mumbled into Faith's ruffles, but if she answered, I couldn't hear her over the murmurs of the crowd.

"Is that – "

"It sure looks like – "

"But it _can't_ be – "

Across the room, Morland rose unsteadily to his feet, gripped the edge of the bar, and squeaked, "What is the meaning of this?"

Then he stared intently at the actor, like Ash trying to attune to the ghost field. Faith's chest rumbled under my head in a little chuckle, and Morland groaned and rubbed his temples as if he'd just gotten a very bad headache.

A few eelery workers moved too quickly for me to follow their actions, but when the dust settled, some were hanging onto Vey, who flailed and gibbered, and some were bending over the other guy and asking if he were okay.

The dude next to Ash suddenly burst out, "But that's me cousin!" People furtively glanced at him, then looked away as if embarrassed. "But he went to the Church!"

"That can't be right!" Ash exclaimed. "Ellis, are you sure?"

The dude bounded off his stool, tripped over his own feet – yay! Someone else who couldn't walk straight! – and staggered over to Vey. He peered at him with a horrified expression. "Sevraxis! It can't be you! You were saved!"

Ash rushed up to brace the dude when he nearly toppled over. "Is it really Sevraxis?" he demanded, his voice ringing around the room. "If that's Sevraxis, then what about the others? What about – " and he rattled off an entire list of weird names. Why did the Tycherosi use such weird names?

Rumbles began to rise from all sides.

"What is the meaning of this?" Ash yelled at Morland.

Providing appropriate sound effects, the crowd growled ominously.

Pointing a dramatic finger at the curate, Ash declaimed, "I will have answers for what happened to me sister! And I will have them now, Curate, or there will be blood!"

Even through the haze of Black Lotus, I could sense the crowd teetering right on the edge.

Swaying on his feet, Morland tried frantically to regain control of his flock. "No, no, no," he gabbled. "That can't possibly be Sevraxis. He was definitely taken into the arms of the Church. There must be another explanation for this. Ellis, calm down a moment. You're very drunk." He turned to Vey. "Explain yourself." He stared intently, trying to compel the "ghost," but then clutched at his temples in the most hilarious way. Faith noticed me watching him and winked.

Our fake ghost burbled incoherently about murder and vengeance.

Oh, right. We were here to murder the curate, weren't we?

Standing so suddenly that the whole world cartwheeled, I shrieked, "So was everything you said at the service a _lie_? I thought you would save us all! Everything was darkness, and I thought you were the only light in this darkness, and now it's just more darkness!" Then I collapsed back into Faith's arms and buried my face in my hands, sobbing hysterically.

A soothing hand petted my hair. "There, there." If anything, Faith sounded even more entertained now.

Shouts. Smashing glass. The crash of shattering stools. Above the din rose Ash's anguished cry – "Is the Church selling Hollowed bodies to _ghosts_?" – and the curate's panicked plea – "It's all lies! Lies! I swear, they were taken into the arms of the Church – !"

Nearby, fabric rustled and a voice called urgently, "I'm going to get the wardens!"

Opening my eyes, I caught a glimpse of a local wading past on his way to the door. I reached out, snagged his arm, slid off my stool, and babbled frantically about how the curate was a lie, and the Church was a lie, and the Hollowing was a lie, and everything was a lie….

He shook me off. "We have bigger eels to fry," he said brusquely, and disappeared out the door.

Faith made a tiny pushing motion with her finger.

Glowing faintly, the guy slammed back into the bar and shouted, "I changed my mind!" He stabbed a thick, hairy finger at the curate. "This is _all your fault_!" And he plunged into the fray.

A second ghost swirled hungrily around Faith and tried to possess her, but she just batted it away, as if it were an annoying child distracting her from a good show.

"It _is_ all his fault!" I screeched, climbing onto the table, waving my arms, and searching for the curate. "_He lied to us_!"

Kender Morland had long since vanished under a large pile of angry Tycherosi.

Our leading man, brilliant actor that he was, had stayed in character the entire time, screaming bloody murder. Now Ash hauled him off to the side and brandished a lightning hook at him while the "ghost" convulsed and wailed.

Faith's eyes lit up. She bounced off her stool. "An _exorcism_?" she cried in delight. "Can I _help_?"

Together, they performed a fake exorcism with much chanting and arm waving. It was a waste of a fine performance. No one was paying them any attention.

"Let's get you out of here," Ash said soothingly to Vey, who burbled and rolled his eyes in confused terror that didn't look entirely feigned.

"I'm staying," Faith declared. "I mustn't miss a minute of this mayhem!" She selected a different table with a better view of the frenzy and propped her elbows on the table.

Ash and I hustled the actor onto the street.

Against a backdrop of incoherent shouting, Ash muttered at me, "Can you get him home?" His entire body angled back towards the door, as if he mustn't miss a minute of the mayhem either. "That Which Hungers wants to watch."

Of course it did.

"Of _course_ I can!" I proclaimed, flinging my arms wide. I listed to one side and grabbed Vey's arm for support. "Come, friend! The night is young!"

Although the actor regarded me doubtfully, that was exactly what Ash wanted to hear. "Good. I'll see you later."

True to my word, I walked Vey Weaver all the way back to his commune in Silkshore.

I even remembered to pay him the rest of his fee.


	36. Finding Me

By the time I staggered back to the Old Rail Yard, the Black Lotus-induced euphoria had faded, leaving me sick and dizzy. My head throbbed, and I had to pause every few feet to steady myself on the nearest fence. Luckily, over the past couple months the citizens of Coalridge had drawn their own conclusions regarding my extracurriculars, and no one attempted to mug or in any way molest me.

All of the windows of our railcar were dark, indicating that Ash and Faith were still at The Old Rasp supervising Morland's demise. Tottering the last few feet, I leaned heavily against the doorframe for a moment, marshalled the last of my strength, and dragged myself into the common room, letting the door slam shut behind me. As I braced myself against the table and fumbled for the nearest chair, Grandfather – which was safely stashed away in my compartment – _tsked_ inside my head.

And then a very familiar sword – _his _sword – was at my throat.

I stared at it dumbly for a moment. Then I put a finger on the blade and tried to ease it out of the way.

It didn't budge.

From the shadows, an even more familiar voice said quietly, "You have led me on a merry chase, Signy. But this is where it ends."

"Ummmm." I groped for options but couldn't push past the pounding in my skull. "That was kind of the point?"

Stray rays of light from the window played over the figure of "Finnley Tyrconnell," obscuring his features and turning his hair an eerie silver. Somewhere during that walk back, my own hair had come loose and straggled messily about my shoulders, and I noted distantly that it glowed the exact same unearthly hue. But that was where the resemblance ended. He looked completely at ease in a sharply tailored black coat under a nondescript wool cloak. I, on the other hand, wore a patched brownish-greyish dress under a thin, frayed shawl. How many times had I dreamed of seeing him again? Of speaking to him again? And now it had finally come to pass, and I resembled nothing so much as the refuse of society that huddled around the well U'Du for warmth.

"Hello, Sigmund." I spoke softly, echoing his resigned tone. "Would you like to have a seat?"

"No." Sigmund – my brother, my lover, my hunter – sounded sad and regretful and incredibly weary. "No, I don't think this will take very long."

"Then…do you mind if _I _have a seat?"

"Go ahead."

His sword point stayed at my throat as I hauled out a chair and collapsed into it, but he stepped sideways, and the bar of moonlight fell full across his face. In spite of everything – the fear, the drugs, the blade at my throat – my breath still caught at the sight. He wasn't wearing any fake beards or wigs, hadn't applied any makeup to alter his features. He was here as himself – the heir of House Anixis, who belonged in golden ceremonial robes on a dais at the center of a great hall. It made absolutely no sense to place him against the backdrop of an abandoned railcar.

Was I hallucinating from the Black Lotus? Futilely, I massaged my temples. "Is it _really_ you?"

He gave me a wounded look. "Who else would it _be_?"

"I don't know," I retorted in exactly the way that used to annoy him most. "Given the amount of Black Lotus I took tonight – "

It worked. "Oh, _Signy_!" he exclaimed. The blade lowered a hair as he waved his free hand in frustration.

" – I could be talking to myself. Or maybe I'm going crazy. I don't know."

Bringing the sword point back up before I could try anything, he demanded, "What _happened_ to you? What happened to your _arm_?"

"It's a _really_ long story. Do you _really_ want to know?" Without breathing, I waited for his response, half-anxious and half-hopeful at the same time, because if he said no, he'd have that much less to use against me, but if he said yes, that meant he still cared….

He hesitated, a raw, torn expression in his eyes.

Stretching out one shaky hand, I reached past the sword. He let me poke his arm, his perfectly solid arm.

"It really _is_ you," I marveled.

My brother shot me another exasperated look. "It really is me. And the Patriarch has really commanded me to kill you. Which does not leave me with a lot of options."

I cast about for a clever comeback, a snarky retort, any kind of response really, but nothing cut through the Black Lotus. In the ensuing silence, Sigmund glanced around the common room, as if incredulous that _this_ was where it would all end for a scion of House Anixis.

His pity was too much. "If you're going to kill me, then get on with it," I informed him defiantly. "I have a horrible headache. Maybe death will fix it."

He exhaled sharply. "If that's what you want – " he began in irritation, then bit back the rest of his sentence. When he spoke again, it was with heavy calm. "Listen, Signy, maybe you're not in the best frame of mind for this offer…. I don't see a lot of ways out of this, but I think possibly…." Then he broke off and glared at his drug-abusing twin. "How much Lotus did you _take_?"

How was I supposed to remember? "I don't know," I replied irritably. "These things depend on the purity level." He just waited, eyebrows raised. "Oh, fine. I assume Mylera wouldn't have stiffed me on quality, given that I _work_ for her…." Oops, maybe I shouldn't have let that slip. Too late. I ran some calculations of the concentration of Black Lotus I'd mixed into the drinks, then re-ran the numbers when I lost track halfway through.

Increasingly dismayed, Sigmund was doing his own math, trying to determine just how lucid I was. "Good enough," he growled at last. "Look, Signy – I think I might be able to convince the Patriarch that I killed you. But you could never go back to Iruvia, and I would need Grandfather and your right hand."

"What?" I cried. "No!"

"Then I really don't see any other options."

"No! You can't have either! And I'm going home!"

After everything that had happened, _this_ was what took Sigmund aback. "You can't!"

"Remember everything we planned?"

"Yes, I remember everything we planned. How could I forget everything we planned, Signy? But – "

"We were going to change everything! Now you've become just like them," I accused bitterly.

Drawing a deep breath, he retreated behind the façade of the heir of a great House. With a merciless compassion that echoed the Patriarch's, he said, "Signy, we were naïve children when we thought we could immediately upend the system."

"We never planned to _immediately_ upend it," I protested helplessly, even though that was precisely what we'd fantasized for so many years. "But _you're_ not planning to do anything at all."

"No. I'm not," he stated, the admission like a coup de grâce. "There were a lot of things we didn't understand at the time that I have since learned."

That was what they all said – all the members of House Anixis who stayed (and survived) – and nothing ever changed. I refused to let my brother off so easily. "Then _enlighten_ me," I bit out. "What have you learned since we were naïve children to make you abandon _everything_ we cared about?"

Out of force of long habit, he began to answer. "For a start – " Then he hesitated, suddenly unsure how much to tell a traitor to the House he would inherit.

Hands folded demurely in my lap, I waited patiently while he wrestled with his own conscience. After all, he wasn't the only one trained in interrogation techniques.

At last Sigmund struck a compromise with himself. "Surely you've been paying _some_ attention to the political situation, even in – " With his free arm, he gestured broadly, encompassing the railcar, the Old Rail Yard, all of Coalridge, really.

"Well, yes," I flat-out lied. (Here Grandfather inserted a very pointed silence into my head.) Probing for more information, I inquired, "What does _that_ have to do with anything?"

My brother wasn't fooled any more than the fragment of Ixis inside the sword, but he'd already made his choice. "The Imperium is poised to invade," he explained simply. "There is literally a fleet massing at Bright Harbor." That was Iruvia's most important port, on the northernmost tip of the isle, and even if it couldn't match Doskvol for leviathan hunter berthing capacity, control of it would provide a base for military operations against U'Duasha. I opened my mouth to ask how the Immortal Emperor had justified such an aggressive move, but Sigmund continued passionately, "We are not strong enough to drive them back without the aid of the Demon Princes. We _need_ the strength of Serekh. We _need _the swiftness of Khuset. We _need_ the wisdom of Khayat. We _need_ the cunning of Ixis. Badly."

I took a moment to sift through potential counterarguments. There was no point in questioning his intel; if House Anixis believed that the Imperium was poised to invade, then the Imperium was poised to invade. The only weakness I could discern was his analysis of the facts. Surely the Demon Princes couldn't be our only hope. Surely threatening the Imperium, which was still recovering from the thirty-six-year-long Unity War, with the prospect of a fresh civil war waged on two battlefronts would deter even the Immortal Emperor. "What about Skovlan?" I proposed.

"What _about _Skovlan?" Sigmund retorted, completely belying his activities of the past month. "Skovlan is broken."

For now, I let it slide. "What about Severos, then? Or the Dagger Isles? Surely _someone_ can help." Unlike Skovlan, Severos had no metropolises whose capture would compel surrender, while guerilla warfare in the black jungles of the Dagger Isles would prove nightmarish for the Imperial Army.

Sigmund, who I was sure had already debated those options in conjunction with House leadership, gave me a dubious look. "Perhaps we could pursue a tenuous alliance with another isle…."

"Isn't that what you're already doing?" I demanded, accidentally giving myself away.

He was too experienced an operative to react – or more likely, he'd already detected my surveillance. Probably I'd missed something while putting his bedroom and office back together and Grandfather, being Grandfather, had decided to teach me a lesson. But Sigmund didn't cast any accusations at me. Instead, he wavered, torn between newfound duty and lifelong trust. Lowering his voice, he confided, "Sort of."

"Then what _have_ you been doing?" I pressed. Lounging back in my chair, I stretched out my legs and crossed them comfortably at the ankles, deliberately adopting the position I used to take while he recited history lessons at me.

Face inscrutable, he simply stared at my legs until I uncrossed them and sat back up. Only then did he surrender to old habit. "Well…trying to stall things. Mostly." His next words he selected with great care: "At this juncture, it would be extremely – unwise – to dispense with some of our most powerful tools."

Tools indeed. I sincerely doubted the Demon Princes would agree with that classification, although Ixis would probably be amused and feign harmlessness. _Never mind me in my cracked spire; I'm just a bound, obedient, ancient magical being with powers beyond mortal comprehension; wouldn't you like to learn more…? _"Are you _positive _they're on your side? Demons aren't exactly known for being forthcoming," I reminded him drily. "Or loyal. Or steadfast. Or anything you want in an ally, really."

"But we're useful to them." For the first time, my brother sounded a little defensive.

I pressed the advantage as I would in a fencing match. "For _now_. As far as _you_ know. And the instant they decide Akoros is more useful, they'll desert Iruvia."

I actually scored a touch. Sigmund's eyelashes flickered once, as if the possibility had never occurred to him, but before I could speak again, he counter-attacked. "What would you have me do, Signy? Abandon the family?" _Like you?_ his tone accused.

Caught off guard, I shot up – or started to. In a flash, his blade was there, cutting me off. "No! I never abandoned the family! I'm just – "

I stopped short. What _was_ I doing? The Imperium was on verge of invading my homeland, and instead of participating in House councils and advising my brother and generally helping to guide the course of events, here I was buried in a slum, ignorant of and isolated from political currents, and focused entirely on murdering people for street thugs and smugglers.

In a small voice, I finished, "I'm just trying to figure out how to fix things."

My brother's silence weighed and condemned me.

In a tinier voice, I protested, "And I couldn't do that in U'Duasha, where people kept trying to kill me."

Sigmund didn't say a word. He had condoned – if not ordered – the sending of people to try to kill me. In fact, he himself was here to kill me.

"I always planned to go home. I _miss_ home." So softly I wasn't sure he could hear me, I breathed, "I miss _you_."

He heard, of course, and sighed. "I miss you too." Shaking his head, he glanced around the railcar as if searching for answers among the dust and torn carpeting. "Signy, I – " Suddenly, as if driven past his limits, he exploded, "What would you have us _do_?" In his agitation, he waved his sword, and the blade caught the light from the window and blazed blue-silver, nearly blinding me.

"I don't know!" I cried, blinking away the spots in my vision.

"Kill the Patriarch? Storm the spire?"

"I don't _know_!"

Somehow, his blade had come to rest against the side of my neck, a hair's breadth from splitting skin. He registered that at the same time I did, but made no move to change it. Instead, his jaw clenched and his fingers tightened around the hilt until the blood drained from them.

Swallowing hard, I stared up into his icy eyes and pleaded, "We never planned that far when we were kids, did we?"

"No," he agreed remorselessly. "We had no plan at all."

"I – I thought we had time to figure it out. Together. But – but then you became heir and – you started changing."

Something I couldn't quite name – bitterness, perhaps, even blame – flitted across his features. "I am increasingly convinced that it could have been either one of us, and the Patriarch chose me arbitrarily."

So did he resent me for _not _having been chosen? For having the freedom to steal the sword, flee the city, desert _him_? Forcing him to hunt me down to execute me to prove his own loyalty? With as much mercy as he was showing me, I spat out, "_I_ wouldn't have changed. _I_ wouldn't have abandoned our goals."

"You _think_ that."

"I _know_ that."

There was another tense silence as Sigmund processed my words and their challenge to him, and for one split second, I really thought he would slit my throat and be done with it.

Then all the fight drained out of him, like life's blood ebbing from a wound. His blade drooped to rest against my collarbone, and he appealed to me, "Oh, Signy, what are we going to do?"

If I knew, would I be hiding out in _Coalridge_? "Stay here," I whispered, stretching a hand towards him. "Stay with me."

He stared at it in agony, desperate desire etched into every line of his body. "I _can't_. Signy, I'm on a mission. I mean, not just the one to kill you. I have other missions that are important."

That rejection, with its implication that my death didn't even rank among his _important_ duties, struck me like a casual backhand across the face. What a fool I'd been to believe that he still loved me, that the first eighteen years of our lives meant something when power and politics were at stake! Reeling, humiliated, I dropped my hand and muttered petulantly, "Well, I see where your priorities lie."

"With saving Iruvia?" he snapped. "Yes!" I didn't know what sort of look I gave him, but guilt flickered in his eyes, and his sword tip came back up to stab at my nose like an accusing finger. "Don't pout at me. I was willing to risk becoming one of the Gualim for you."

"What?" I cried, forgetting all about my hurt. "No! You can't do that!"

"Well, obviously, if I go back with your hand and the sword and the Patriarch figures out you're still alive, that's what will happen!"

"Then don't go back!" I pleaded. I couldn't bear the thought of him in chains, dragged by hard-faced House guards to Ixis's spire where wizened priests would rip out his mind and soul and everything that made him _him _and animate his empty husk with demon-craft to serve as a warning to traitors, forever. _Never cross the Patriarch_, my family would whisper, darting glances at what remained of my brother while the old man smiled enigmatically from his high seat_. No one is safe from Hollowing, not even his heir…._

Sigmund, clearly, considered himself safe from Hollowing, or perhaps deemed it the more attractive fate. "What – and stay _here_?" he demanded, repulsed. "In _Akoros_?"

"Yes! It's not so bad!" The thin drizzle chose that moment to turn into a downpour that rattled the railcar. Raising my voice over the racket, I urged, "It's colder and it rains all the time and they don't maintain an artificial day-night cycle, but you get used to it!"

"_Ghosts_ in the city. _Everywhere_."

After two years, I'd almost forgotten what it was like to live in a city where a giant spirit well at the center sucked in all the specters. Given enough time, ghosts and possession simply became a fact of life, just one more factor – like the rain – to plan around while you went about your daily business. Hardly believing that I of all people was _defending_ Doskvol, I assured my brother, "You get used to that too. _ I_ got used to it. And there are good people here."

He looked taken aback. "_Are_ there? Because that's not what I've seen."

At his reference to the Tartan Posse, jealousy flared in me. "Well, think about the circles you've been moving in," I pointed out cattily. "Minor nobility with delusions of distinction."

"Yes," admitted one of the future rulers of Iruvia with a rueful arch of his eyebrows, "that is, more or less, where I've been."

Irked at the thought of _my _brother wasting his time on those silly girls, I rolled my eyes at him. "I know."

"I know you know." Sigmund rubbed his temples as if he were the one with the headache. Then he pronounced with a decisive authority I'd never heard from him before: "All right. If you can come up with a feasible plan for saving Iruvia before I fulfill my other missions, I will do whatever I can to help you with it."

That wasn't quite the reaction I'd hoped for…but then again, it was a much better offer than I'd expected or, for that matter, deserved. "What other missions do you have?" I tested. "What's my time frame?"

"As long as it takes me to arrange things with Skovlan – " here, he had the grace to look slightly embarrassed – "and to locate Ronia Helker's battle plans."

My injured pride spurred me to taunt him, just a little. "I can tell you where they're not."

He inclined his head regally. "That would be helpful."

"They're not in the canal between Six Towers and Nightmarket."

"I know." His tone was very dry. "We've checked."

I couldn't help it. I burst into laughter.

"Why do you know that?" he asked suspiciously. Then, fitting all the pieces together – "Oh, stars above, Signy! Did you kill her?"

It took a while, but eventually I squashed my hysteria and squeaked out an extremely convincing, "Ummm, no?"

He didn't bother to dignify that with a response. "Signy, speaking of your extracurriculars, why did you kill Na'ava Diala? Because I will tell you that after _that_ happened, the Patriarch sent me a very strongly worded letter on how I needed to step up my timetables."

Oops. Even after Grandfather claimed the Hadrakin as its assets, I genuinely had not considered how Irimina's score would affect Sigmund's position – not that it would have stopped me from supporting my crewmates to the best of my ability. In that respect, my brother and I were very much alike.

Sigmund was still waiting for my answer.

"Because we were paid to?" As he'd just pointed out, I _was_, after all, an assassin.

"By whom?" he asked, all focus and intensity now.

I glared at him, indignant that he'd ask me betray my employer. "I can't tell you that."  
"Yes you can," he said flatly, taking two steps closer and looming over me, his face dangerous.

A nervous shudder ran through me, but I met his glare and said stubbornly, "There's something called client confidentiality."

"Yes," he responded, distant and implacable. "There's also something called helping the House destroy its enemies."

"The person in question is not our enemy." Not unless House Anixis had decided to stamp out smuggling across the Shattered Isles, which I highly doubted given how crucial a role smugglers played in our spy networks.

"They hired you to kill our assets."

My response was immediate. "Not for that reason."

"What other reason could they have had?" Sigmund pressed. "How did they even _know_ the Hadrakin were in Doskvol?"

I opened my mouth to defend Irimina, then snapped it shut. How _had _she known that her old nemesis was in Doskvol? Had her agony over a friend named Taji – a friend, I now recalled, of whom Ash and I had found no record whatsoever – been an act worthy of Spiregarden Theater? No, no, Irimina didn't have that sort of performance in her. She was a smuggler, not a Slide. "They had personal reasons," I said at last, weakly.

Sigmund looked entirely unconvinced. "You're _certain_."

"_Yes_," I insisted, resolving to double-check with Ash. After all, what better cover for an Imperial counterspy than a cross-isle black-market operation that required the strategic removal of "obstacles"? "It was bad luck. And – and Ruka was an unfortunate necessity."

As if to punctuate Sigmund's weary sigh, the death bells pealed in the distance, reminding me of a very important clarification.

"Also, I will point out that I technically did _not_ kill Na'ava Diala." In fact, I hadn't even been in the cupola when Ash extracted her life essence, because I was too busy hunting down her partner.

My brother's head tipped slightly to a side in his signature skeptical gesture. "That seems like an extremely fine distinction, given that the message sent back to Iruvia said, 'The traitor Signy Anixis is here and she is going to kill me.'"

That hadn't been Na'ava's or Ruka's exact wording, but even a paraphrase more than damned me. "Notice the future tense – "

"And now she's dead," he overrode me. "So I feel that you were at least present when this happened."  
Depended on your definition of "present." "Well, not exactly…."

"Signy." His tone held a warning note.

"Not technically…." After all, I'd been several feet away by then, skidding over the rooftops in pursuit of Ruka.

"Signy!"

"It's true!" I insisted. "I didn't kill her!"

He threw up his free hand. "You're impossible!"

"And so are you," I retorted, "given that you still have this sword at my throat."

He looked down at his blade as if he'd forgotten all about it. Then he sighed and slid it into its sheath. Sounding exhausted, he answered my earlier question: "Two, three weeks, perhaps. That's how long it will take me to finish my other missions." He looked at me expectantly, as if I should get to work _right now_ developing a feasible plan to save Iruvia.

How had we come to this? How had we wound up bargaining like a spymaster and his asset in a derelict railcar an isle and a half away from home? Softly, I repeated my plea, "Stay with me."

"Like _here_?" He cast an incredulous look around the common room, his gaze lingering significantly on the scuffed paint, the chipped furniture, the ripped wallpaper.

Although I hadn't meant my invitation quite _that_ literally or specifically, I decided to play along. "It doesn't have to be _here_ here. Although – we do have spare rooms."

He actually didn't reject that out of hand. Taking a gamble, I rose from the chair slowly, partly so I didn't topple over, but mostly so I didn't alarm him into any regrettable stabbing. When his sword stayed in its sheath, I swayed forward the last few steps and twined my arms around his waist. As expected, my fingers found the outlines of a pair of daggers, a revolver, and a strangling wire concealed beneath his fine wool coat, but I avoided those and carefully laid my head against his chest.

At first he stiffened.

Then, all of a sudden, he melted, clasping me and crushing me against him as if he could merge us into one. My cheek fit perfectly into the hollow beneath his shoulder, just as it always had.

His breath stirring my hair, he said, "Okay. But not in this ridiculous railcar."

I mumbled into his chest, "I'll have you know, I set plenty of nice traps around this railcar. It's one of the safest places in Doskvol." Except against him, apparently. That was the challenge of warding against someone who knew exactly how you thought.

Sigmund's chest rumbled in a little chuckle before he objected, "But your crew."

That was a good point. I wasn't sure I wanted to subject him to Faith just yet. Our little détente might not survive the encounter. "Where do you want to go?" I asked softly.

He had a reply ready. "There are hotels. In Charterhall. Brightstone's too public, and we really can't be seen together."

"Okay," I agreed obediently.

"But first, you need to change. Go put on that short red dress in your closet."

"Okay," I agreed again.

* * *

After just two months in Doskvol, Sigmund already knew Charterhall better than I did, and he checked us into a hotel that he assured me was very discreet. Based on its location a couple blocks off Imperial Avenue, I guessed that it catered to government officials and the, er, individuals of negotiable affections hired for them by lobbyists. I did bristle a little when Sigmund passed himself off as the former and me the latter, but the hotel staff didn't bat an eye, and in any event, he didn't give me a chance to complain. In the morning, I woke in a wonderfully soft, clean bed and rolled over, meaning to cuddle up against him.

But he was already gone.


	37. Revelations

Although it hurt that Sigmund had vanished without a word, I had to admit that given how I'd left _him_, it was fairly done. At any rate, I knew where he lived and could seek him out at will, and so I floated back to the Old Rail Yard in a happy haze. Tail wagging ferociously, Sleipnir trotted out from under the railcar to greet me, and as I knelt to ruffle the bristles around his neck, I realized that I'd completely forgotten to ask how my _other_ dog was doing. After all, Starlight had always been more mine than my brother's, and almost certainly missed me in a much more straightforward manner.

I should probably have inquired after our parents too.

Instead, like the paragon of filial piety I was, what I _had _queried Sigmund about was the Tartan Posse. From earliest childhood, we'd known that the House would require us to marry for espionage purposes. When my brother surfaced among the Doskvolian nobility, a not-so-tiny part of me feared that he was searching for a wife.

"So – _you've _been popular with the young ladies of Brightstone. Anyone caught your eye yet?" I'd asked slyly, toying with the buttons on his crisp, white shirt as he lay next to me.

"_Them_?" Absolutely appalled, Sigmund had jerked away. "They're so shallow! Signy, give me credit for _some_ taste!"

As euphoric as if he'd given me another hit of Black Lotus, I'd pulled him back down beside me, and neither of us had spoken again for quite some time after that.

* * *

Now, giving Sleipnir one final pat, I drew my cloak tight and crept into my compartment. There, I hastened to change before my crewmates could notice and comment on my dress. While the skirt wasn't as ruffly as Faith's – as Sigmund had pointed out, he did have _some_ modicum of good taste – it was just as short, and the neckline was considerably lower. Faith would have _opinions_. I didn't want to hear them.

Back in my usual getup of Akorosian blouse and trousers, I sauntered into the common room and sank into a chair, the same chair I'd collapsed into last night with my brother's blade at my throat. Seated at the table, Faith and Ash were animatedly debating whether the cult of That Which Hungers would be willing and able to pay for some score or other. Ash nodded absently at me while protesting, "He really, really hates the Church, but there isn't a central repository or anything. They _have_ been hunting and suppressing us since time immemorial, so unfortunately, none of us have the wealth…."

"They paid for us to assassinate – " Faith shrugged, as if she couldn't be expected to remember the names of all our targets – "that minor functionary. Surely they'd pay more for a high-ranking member."

Their casual unconcern for where I'd spent the night amused me, especially given Sigmund's anxiety over the whole thing.

* * *

Entwined in each other's arms, we'd been on the verge of sleep when he jolted upright, dislodging my head from a comfortable position on his chest. "Did you leave a note for your crew?"

It had taken me a moment to process what he meant. "No." I'd tugged at him futilely.

"They won't come looking for you?"

"No." They'd probably assume that I was spending the night with Bazso, although Sigmund didn't need to know that.

"Mmmm. Okay." Obviously dubious about the sort of people I was associating with, he'd grudgingly accepted my assessment and lain back down.

* * *

Back in the present, one of these dubious associates who didn't even bother to track my whereabouts was saying to the other, "I can ask Mother, but – wait. A high-ranking member? Is this part of our plan?"

Serenely, Faith responded, "I am indeed referring to our plan."

_What plan?_ I wondered idly. What was Faith up to _now_?

Ash drummed his fingers on the table as he thought. "It could be tricky…but the Iruvians must hate the Church too, right?" His gaze settled on me. "Oh, Isha, did the Black Lotus wear off?"

With an effort, I pushed aside pleasant memories of soft mattresses and fluffy pillows. "What did you say, Ash?"

"Ah, apparently not." Unlike Sigmund, Ash betrayed absolutely no concern over my drug abuse (or lack thereof). "Isha, wouldn't you say that the Iruvians also hate the Church?"

Not really. With our standing army and leviathan hunter fleet, we'd retained a fair amount of autonomy when we joined the Imperium as a tributary-state, and under the terms of the treaty, Imperial institutions had to be confined to a ward outside U'Duashan walls. Where led U'Duasha, there followed the rest of Iruvia, and so the Church of Ecstasy had never found much purchase on the isle.

Ash was still waiting for my answer. "Not really," I told him, wondering where this was going. Did he want one of the _Houses_ to hire us? "They leave us alone and we leave them alone."

"Well, the Iruvian assassins who came here must worship the old gods, right? Because I assure you that my group is not the only one that hates the Church."

I gave up trying to infer what he was talking about and applied some of Bazso's bluntness. "I have no idea where this is going."

"Oh!" Ash seemed surprised. "Did we never tell you – apparently not. Well, there are many follow-up missions to the last score. We just need to find a buyer."

Now I felt even more confused. "I thought we were done. The curate is dead – " at the hands of his own congregation, no less, if the death bells were any indication – "and I'm fairly certain that that Tycherosi community no longer – "

"Ah," interjected Faith, "although we may have redeemed one diminutive group, we have also determined through dastardly deeds that the curate was involved in a deep, dark plot to aid a dire demonic ritual to elevate a Church dignitary – "

"To do _what_?" I yelped.

"– And that in honor of this elevation, there will be a festival – a fête! – full of demon spawn and Hollowed souls and everything in between!"

"Wait," I pleaded. "Slow down. I'm really confused now. What's going on?"

Gesticulating dramatically, Faith declaimed, "Our insidious investigation has informed us that, remotely – without setting one foot in the Church! – and allowing no blame to fall on us, we can assassinate the guest of honor! With one decisive blow, we can do away with a prelate at no risk to ourselves!"

How had we gone from taking Ash's mother's coin to save a small group of Tycherosi from itself, to launching a commando strike against the highest echelons of a hallowed Imperial institution? If, as Faith had pointed out, our crew couldn't even take on a vassal nation, how could we hope to attack the foundations of the Imperium itself?

Spreading my hands helplessly, I appealed to Ash, "Do you have any coffee?"

Faith flung her head back, giggling shrilly.

Ash just blinked at me, looking as bewildered as I felt. "Do I have any_ what? _Oh, yes, coffee. Spiked or not?" Rummaging through the cabinet under the bar, he mixed some spices and medicinal liquids into a vague approximation of a stimulant beverage. "Here." He handed me a concoction whose odor did more to wake me up than Mylera's strongest espresso.

As if there had been no interruption whatsoever, Faith continued her tale with relish. "One of the things the Church needs for this dark, demonic ritual is the body of some poor Tycherosi lass, to whom they will do horrible, hideous, horrendous things."

Trying a sip of Ash's "coffee," I nearly spat it back out. "Wait, you mean the girl you identified? Kallysta?"

"Indeed." Faith inclined her head regally.

"But we've dealt with that," I protested. "We've discredited the Church."

Ash immediately corrected this dangerous misconception. "We've discredited one minor priest thereof."

Faith agreed. "We've discredited but one _aspect_ of the Church. Now we need to teach it that if they target poor Tycherosi lasses, then their demonic rituals will suffer for it. With one fell swoop of our blade, we can punish their transgressions and eliminate their bloodlust!" Without stopping to breathe, she whirled back to Ash. "Are you _sure_ your Tycherosi friends won't pay for this?"

He actually chuckled. "_I _would pay for this."

"We might take you up that," Faith assented sweetly.

Ash instantly regretted his largess. "But still – "

Yes, _still_. "I'm still confused," I broke in. "Back up a bit. What is this about demonic rituals?"

"Yes, Faith," seconded Ash, grateful for the distraction from personal finances. "Why are we so certain that their rituals are demonic?"

"Because it's the _Church_," Faith replied with exaggerated patience, as if "the Church" should be synonymous with "diabolical corruption." "They engage in demonic rituals at the Sanctorium every sixth day at the eighth hour sharp. It's clearly posted on the message board. Why, Ash, have you never taken proper Communion?"

I monitored Ash's expression closely to see if she were telling the truth. When his jaw dropped with belief, I demanded, "What does the Church have to do with demons? I thought it was about finding pleasure!"

With a sorrowful shake of her head, Faith lowered her voice suggestively. "Why, Isha, since you're so _inexperienced_ – " recalling last night, I turned as red as my dress – "I'd be _happy_ to show you what demons have to do with pleasure." Then she practically fell over in a fit of giggles.

"Are there pleasure demons?" Ash inquired, curious despite himself.

"I can tell you from personal experience that demons have nothing to do with pleasure whatsoever!" I snapped back, still blushing ferociously.

Faith just winked at Ash, who also began chuckling.

Pressing my hands to my cheeks, I strove to haul the conversation back on track. "All right, I know why I hate demons, but what about you, Faith? And Ash – you're part demon yourself!"

Faith shrugged and picked at a snag on her sleeve. "Oh, I just think this will be fun. Sorry, I meant to say: 'Oh gods, what _else_ is there to do around here?'"

Plenty. For starters, reconcile the Lampblacks and Red Sashes, develop a plan to deter the Immortal Emperor from invading Iruvia, wrangle a reservation for two at the Golden Plum before Sigmund returned to U'Duasha….

"Anything that embarrasses the Church is well worth pursuing," argued Ash. "As for the fact that it's dealing with demons – well, demons come in all shapes and sizes. Some are troublesome; some aren't."

"And _some_ of them," added Faith in a sultry voice, staring at me intently, "have tentacles with protrusions in strange places…. They're called pleasure demons for a reason, you know."

"Yes, yes, I'm sure," said Ash drily while I groaned and dropped my head into my hands.

Resurfacing, I snapped, "All right, Faith, if you're this bored, I have a different proposition."

"Oh?" she inquired, looking mildly interested.

"The Imperium plans to invade Iruvia." Faith gasped and raised a hand to her lips, as if she'd just walked into an elegant sitting room and found a servant on the settee. "What can we do to stop it?"

She dismissed it instantly as a remedy for _ennui_. "Oh, that's easy. All we have to do is acquire dredging equipment and go to this bridge in Six Towers…."

Why had I thought she might be helpful? "What did you just say to Ash about believing our own lies?" I asked sharply.

"You should only do it when it's entertaining." She folded her hands demurely in her lap.

Addressing Ash instead of her, I explained, "Someone else is already searching for Helker's notes." Two or three more weeks, Sigmund had estimated. Although, if I found them first and _hid_ them…. "We just need to come up with an overarching plan."

Ash's eyes lit up as if he sensed coin. "An overarching plan to invade the Imperium?"

Where had _that_ come from? "No, no, to prevent the Imperium from invading Iruvia!"

"What makes you so certain they will? I mean, not that they wouldn't, of course."

I gave him a reproachful look. I was a Slide. It was my business to know such things.

Returning the look, he remarked casually, "I guess this has to do with your whole traitor thing?"

"_What did you just say_?"

I found myself on my feet, the room spinning and tilting about me, and I clutched at the table as my world narrowed down to one fatal phrase: "The traitor Signy Anixis."

I _hadn't_ shot Ruka fast enough after all. Ash understood Hadrathi.

Satisfied by my reaction, he answered with studied modesty, "Yes, well, I'm also a Slide."

I squeaked, "You understand _Hadrathi_? How?"

"It's a very useful language to know."  
Getting my breath back at last and standing up straight, I accused, "And you never said anything?"

"It never came up until I heard it."

Naturally, Faith couldn't bear to be left out of other people's tragedies. "Wait, wait, what's this about Hadrathi? When did Hadrathi come up?"

"Our assassin friends – and by 'friends' I mean the people we murdered – were speaking it," Ash reminded her.

"Oh!" Faith exclaimed, as if bashed on the head by sudden enlightenment. "You mean when those assassins dramatically disclosed that Isha is a traitor to her homeland of Iruvia and revealed her real name?"

I whirled, trapped between the two of them. "You _also_ speak Hadrathi? Does _everyone_ speak Hadrathi?"

"Just the two of us," Ash assured me matter-of-factly, showing no sympathy whatsoever that my world was crumbling all around me.

"Why didn't you mention this earlier?" I felt inexplicably betrayed that he'd known my true identity for weeks now and kept it to himself for his own nefarious purposes. Of _course_ he'd kept it to himself for his own nefarious purposes. He was part _demon_.

Ash read all of that in my face at a glance, and his own expression cooled. "We didn't bring it up because we thought you would talk to us in your own time," he informed me.

With a guilty pang, I recalled how he'd kept Bazso's patronage a secret until Bazso chose to divulge it himself, and I had no good response.

"Also," drawled Faith, breaking the uncomfortable silence, "it's far more fun to know secrets when the person whose secret it is doesn't know that you know it. If they know, it's not really a secret anymore, is it?"

Darting a remorseful glance at Ash, I forced myself to sit back down and adopt a relaxed pose. "All right, setting that aside, the descriptor of 'traitor' is vastly exaggerated." (Although, to be honest, from the perspective of House leadership, all I'd done up to this point was steal their most prized possession, flee to an enemy isle, evade capture for two years, and then reappear suddenly to murder their assets.) "Regardless, the point is that I have two or three weeks to come up with a feasible plan to prevent the Imperium from invading Iruvia."

Luckily, Ash had proven forgiving over and over, and this time was no exception. "Oh, but that's easy," he said, leaning back in his chair and extending his legs comfortably. "The Imperium wants to invade all sorts of other provinces. We just need to convince them that that's the case."

Cautiously, I divulged, "I suspect that convincing Skovlan is already underway. It can't hurt if we get involved though."

"It can very much hurt," Ash corrected me. "For a start, we can find out why Iruvia sent those assassins after you."

It took a moment for me to realize he meant the Hadrakin, not my brother. "Oh, no, they weren't here for me. They were here for Helker's battle plans."

"And now we realize that stopping them…," began Ash.

"May not have been the best move," I finished ruefully. For so many reasons, not the least of which was that I'd killed one of them for worse than nothing. Recalling Sigmund's words, I asked abruptly, "Was Irimina honest about her reasons for hiring us?"

Startled, he replied, "Yes. She was genuine."

I breathed a sigh of relief, glad that I wouldn't have to kill our patron. "Good. That's what I thought."

Ash glanced over at Faith, who was untying and retying the bows on her skirt as if she were about to drop dead from sheer, unadulterated boredom. "If that's settled, why don't we go over the plan with you, Isha? The ritual is in a week. What do we need for it, Faith?"

Picking up the end of one ribbon and letting it stream through her fingers, Faith admired the way the light played over the silk. "All we need are a cute girl, a sacrificial altar, a flowered headdress – "

"I really don't like where this is going," I muttered at Ash, who ignored me.

" – a mote of the Unbroken Sun, and a chocolate egg."

Ash glared at her.

"A chocolate egg," I repeated sarcastically.

"Well, yes," she explained in a tone of utmost reason. "I might get hungry."

Reverting to his usual strategy, Ash sidestepped the entire discussion of chocolate eggs. "What makes you pick the Unbroken Sun?"

"Ah, young neophyte, if you but read that tome you possess on the forgotten gods, you may learn that the Unbroken Sun has a particular hatred of demons. Hence, I imagine he might have some concerns about being used in a demonic ritual." Dropping the wise philosopher act, Faith also reverted to type, widening her eyes and inquiring like an earnest young acolyte, "That's the sort of thing that might mildly perturb a god, right? Like, it might slightly annoy them? They might even notice?"

As realization dawned on Ash's face, I repeated the question no one had answered yet: "What does the Church want with demons?"

Faith pretended to ponder the issue. "That's a good question. I hear they're the path to power and wisdom and cunning and – what's the last one? Justice."

"So you're suggesting that the Church is in league with the Demon Princes of U'Duasha," I stated with heavy skepticism.

She feigned shocked hopefulness (or maybe hopeful shock). "You have Demon Princes in U'Duasha? Are they cute? Do they wear shining armor straight out of legend?"

Handsome, heroic knights in shining armor seemed to be an obsession of hers. "No. They're encased in black crystal spires."

Now it was Ash's turn to be appalled. "You imprison your demons?" he asked incredulously. "Are you allied with them or subjugating them?"

Before I could answer, Faith leaped in. "My detailed analysis shows that they are subjugating Iruvia itself by being imprisoned."

Ash processed that, then said to me, "I certainly hope you're planning to use these Demon Princes against the Imperium."

"Thus furthering the subjugation of Iruvia," Faith followed up cheerfully.

I shook my head at both of them. "That's the problem: We need to come up with a way to save Iruvia so we don't have to resort to using them."

"There's an easy solution," Faith piped up. For one split second, I felt hope – and then she kept talking. "You resort to using demons so that afterwards, you don't have to resort to using demons anymore!"

I couldn't even fault her for that one: It was the logic everyone used every single time.

"What's wrong with using demons against the Imperium?" Ash sounded slightly offended.

"Because they're evil, and they corrupt you, and they destroy everything."

"Almost every single one of those statements is false." Now Ash sounded thoroughly offended.

Innocently, Faith asked, "Has Ash corrupted you yet?"

I couldn't suppress a quick glance at my cast.

"I really think Faith is the corrupter in this relationship," Ash muttered before trying to make me see reason. "Look, Isha, Tycheros is part of the Imperium because we _don't_ have Demon Princes. True, we're all descended from demons, but there isn't a demonic presence there anymore. In fact, it's one of the last bastions of the ancient gods. Honestly, if it weren't for your Demon Princes, Iruvia would have been conquered outright. More than it has been already, that is."

That was Sigmund's contention too. "I wouldn't exactly call Iruvia conquered…," I hedged. Iruvia excelled at paying lip service to the Imperium while skirting treaty limits. Just look at the way we circumvented the law requiring every Imperial city to have a lightning barrier – by building one around U'Duasha's Imperial Ward.

"If that is true, then it's because battling four Demon Princes is a _lot_ of work."

Stubbornly, I insisted, "No, it's because battling our standing army and our standing fleet is a lot of work."

Ash radiated disbelief. "And you think they can compare to the forces the Imperium can bring to bear against you?"

"Yes…?" Thus far, they had given the Immortal Emperor pause. But even as I spoke, I recalled that up until two years ago, the Unity War had provided a very convenient drain on Imperial resources – and that we could expect no further aid from that quarter. ("What _about_ Skovlan?" Sigmund had demanded. "Skovlan is broken.")

"Isha," Ash warned, "when the gears of war turn, they do not stop easily. Having diverted considerable effort to ramping up the war economy, do you think the Imperium will just settle back into a peaceful state – or do you think it will redirect its extremely large military forces against a new target?" I opened my mouth but found nothing intelligent to say. "If you could have extended the Unity War by another few years, you'd have been safe. But you're not."

In a soft voice, I asked, "What's the point of winning a war at the cost of destroying everything we love?"

"Then surrender and be conquered," he said simply.

At that, I threw up my hands in exasperation. "Why does everyone think there are only two options?"

"_I_ have a third option," Faith interjected. "Unleash the Demon Princes on both Iruvia _and_ Akoros. Then no one will have time for an Iruvian-Akorosian war. I'm sure I can come up with a fourth option too."

Ash continued as if she hadn't spoken. "When was the last time you talked to these Demon Princes? Do you have a diplomatic relationship with them?"

Faith suggested, "They probably have tea every afternoon."

"At the eighth hour," Ash said sarcastically.

Faith beamed at him. "Of course!" She mimed picking up a cup. "Just picture it: hulking demonic figures with black wings and horns the size of lamp posts, sipping tea from dainty little teacups with their pinkies sticking out, while discussing politics and – " She paused, searching for an alliteration, then finished triumphantly, "And pastries!"

In my head, Grandfather agreed, sounding incredibly entertained,_ Yes, that is exactly what we do. _Trust my irritating sword to get along with my irritating crewmate!

As I mentally shoved it away, Ash said, "Well, at any rate, it would be good to incite these Demon Princes against the Imperium, but in the meantime, we should assassinate this Church prelate. Since Ascension Day doesn't happen every day, we're on a timetable."

Taking a leaf out of his book, I bargained, "I'll help if the two of you help _me_ come up with a way to save Iruvia that doesn't involving allying with, drawing upon, or in any way making any kind of pact with the Demon Princes."

Ash nodded his acceptance of the terms. "I wouldn't take that last one off the table, but neither of us is exactly dictating Iruvian politics. For now, we need to obtain motes of the Unbroken Sun. I don't think Ilacille will be very happy with me for spying on its cult, so maybe Isha can – "

Faith interrupted. "I think the better question is how we're going to get paid for it. Now, Ash has already offered his personal coin, but somehow I doubt he will be very generous." He didn't even look abashed by that assessment of his parsimony. "But you know who else hates the Church?" She made us guess for a while before she bounced up and down and announced, "The Reconciled! Let's go talk to Nyryx!"


	38. A Conversation with Nyryx

I just barely quashed a shudder of revulsion. "There's really no one else?" I asked in as neutral a tone as I could manage.

Tipping her head to a side, Faith favored me with an elven smile and graciously allowed, "There are, I suppose, the rest of the Reconciled. I hear they include members of the City Council itself! If you really want, you can interview the Lords and Ladies Bowmore, Clelland, Dunvil, Penderyn, Rowan, and Strangford to figure out which ones are being possessed. That's the sort of thing powerful nobles love, right? Why don't you go talk to them while Ash and I stay here, sip coffee, and come up with conspiracy theories about the celebrated traitor Signy Anixis?"

While I sputtered into my "coffee," Ash gave me a much more convincing reason for approaching the purveyor of soulless bodies. "Look, Isha, we need a patron who commands vast resources, detests the Church, _and_ is willing to tangle with it. Outside of Nyryx, how many people do we know who fit all those criteria? How many people in _Doskvol_ fit all those criteria?"

As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. Apart from forgotten god cultists and the Reconciled, Doskvolians generally embraced the Church for the fleshly ecstasies it enabled, or ignored it as a not-particularly-interesting part of their childhood sixth days. Although Irimina was engaged in activities "the Church would look down on," her preference for keeping a low profile meant that she'd be no use in this affair. As for the cultists, they possessed resentment in plenty but lacked resources and, presumably, will, and while I could identify a _different_ Reconciled to proposition, what was the point?

"_Fine_." Having just traded my services for my crewmates' aid in saving Iruvia, I couldn't in good conscience back out, but I capitulated with much less grace than became a member of House Anixis. Mother would have been appalled.

As the three of us bundled up against a fine sleet, Faith sidled up to me and slanted a sidelong glance at my face. "I'm really glad we had a chance to talk at the bar last night, Isha," she purred. "I don't think you've ever opened up to me that much before."

Ye gods, what had I _said_ last night? My memories of the bar had even more holes than the lace trim around Faith's neckline. Blushing fiercely, I glowered and opened my mouth to deliver a lecture on how she shouldn't take advantage of revelations committed under the influence of hallucinogens (consumed on behalf of crew ventures, no less).

But she prattled on gaily, "For example, I never knew you loved my ruffles so much! When this score is over, I'll take you shopping. You can meet my seamstress. We'll design something extra special just for you!"

Yes, because Sigmund's tastes in feminine fashion ran the gamut from tartan _everything_ to knee-length, multi-tiered, frothy pink dresses with ginormous bows the size of – of suckers on a tentacled canal demon, say.

I startled Faith and Ash as much as myself when I burst into laughter.

* * *

Barely decent in a dirty red satin dress that bore an unfortunate resemblance to my attire last night, Nyryx was haunting her usual turf halfway down Catcrawl Alley in the Docks. Strange honks and wails from Captain Rye's Menagerie almost drowned out her sultry voice as she draped herself over a barrel to display her cleavage and inquired suggestively, "What can I do for _you_ today?"

"So many things – " began Ash, who, in an even more unfortunate twist, was picking up Faith's conversational habits.

Faith, naturally, was not to be outdone by her protégé. "Why, good morning, beautiful!" She beamed at the prostitute. "We are in need of your…_services_."

Nyryx smirked back, savoring her role to the fullest. "Oooh," she remarked, arching an eyebrow as she slowly scanned each of us up and down. "All _three_ of you?"

Although I'd positioned myself a little behind my crewmates, Faith seized my arm and propelled me towards the Reconciled. "This girl here is a little shy, so you may need to be more gentle with her."

I wrenched free with a murderous glare while Nyryx chuckled throatily.

Either Ash took pity on me or grew impatient at the waste of time (probably the latter), because he edged between Faith and me and announced, "Faith is succumbing to her base desires, but we came here for business."

"That's what _I_ said too!" she protested, eyes wide with indignation.

Dispassionately, he replied, "Yes, but that's not what you implied."

"_Thank you_, Ash," I muttered with feeling.

Nyryx just chuckled again and draped herself against the crumbling brick wall. One long-taloned – I meant _fingered_ – hand propped on her hip, she regarded us expectantly.

Casting a final quelling look at Faith, Ash started to explain, "We have plans to disrupt a significant ritual – "

"We want to murder a Church higher-up, but it's going to take significant resources, so we're looking for financial backing." Faith cut to the chase with such shocking directness (which was probably why she deployed it) that she actually stunned Ash into silence.

Nyryx, however, matched her bluntness and then raised her some. "Okay. How much do you need?"

"Some of the reagents may be expensive but…six coin should be enough?" Faith suggested because Ash could launch into a bargaining session.

"Okay," Nyryx agreed again, so readily that he looked dismayed.

However, his expression quickly changed when the Reconciled pushed off the wall and swayed towards us in a predatory manner, meeting and holding each of our eyes in turn. Reflected in her black irises were our tiny figures, surrounded by dancing electroplasmic flames as if we burned in the fires of U'Du, and I found that I couldn't look away. Her painted scarlet mouth gaped wide, revealing a row of gleaming shark's teeth inside her normal incisors. "Out of curiosity, who is it?" She leaned forward, as if ready to devour us in one gulp, and I could swear that her edges fuzzed a little, blurred by a bluish glow. "Is it Dunvil?" those red, red lips demanded. "You're going to kill Dunvil, aren't you? Gods, I'd pay eight coin for that!"

Still transfixed by that stare, I edged into the shelter of a stack of crates, and Ash took a step back, but Faith merely quirked her lips in a humorless smile. "I think killing Dunvil would cost a lot more than that, dear."

"Would it, though? Would it?" Snapping back into her body, the Reconciled patted Faith's cheek fondly and withdrew. "Because I think you'd do it for free."

Off to the side, Ash made a noise of frustration at the digression. "To answer your question, Nyryx," he said, stepping back up, "we're planning to assassinate the target of the Ascension Day ritual. It _could _be Dunvil, but we have no way of determining that ahead of time."

Nyryx gave Faith a long, hard look, which our Whisper returned with a perfectly innocent expression. "That _would_ be a crippling blow for the Church," the Reconciled allowed at last.

"To be entirely honest – and you know how much that hurts me," Faith assured her, "our plan might not actually _kill_ the target. It might just drive them mad. Or cause an explosion – that would be fun! Also, the Church may have been performing this ritual more recently of late, so I don't know if they're extending the…."

"Well, that's disturbing," interjected Nyryx, cutting off whatever information Faith was about to divulge.

With that, Ash agreed wholeheartedly. "Especially because they have been capturing and Hollowing innocent Tycherosi. Well, _foolish_ Tycherosi, anyway," he corrected himself.

"Of course they have been," said Nyryx, eyeing her own Tycherosi body.

I spoke up for the first time at this meeting, hoping that if Faith wouldn't answer my question, perhaps Nyryx would. "What exactly is the purpose of this ritual?"

Before the Reconciled could respond, Faith asked with malicious earnestness, "Well, you know how it's called the Church of the Ecstasy of the Flesh?" Out of the corner of my eye, I observed Nyryx, who relaxed against the wall, as amused as a spectator at the animal fighting pits. "Isha, I'm honestly not sure I can explain the ritual and what it entails to you. Not after I saw your reaction earlier today, when your cheeks started blazing like the watchfires of a thousand suns, a beacon cutting through the Doskvolian night and giving away our location to anyone who might wander by!" With a wink at the others, she concluded, "The Church involves many delicious, delicious sins, and I'm not sure you are prepared to learn them."

At that, a tiny frown creased the Reconciled's forehead. "Wait, we _are_ talking about the same ritual, right?"

In reply, Faith just threw her a naughty look.

Angling my body to cut her out of the conversation, I repeated doggedly, "What exactly _is_ this ritual?"

Nyryx glanced past my shoulder at Faith, and whatever she saw there decided her. "Listen," she said almost apologetically, "it's really not my place. But anyway, I will definitely pay you eight coin to disrupt this. Whoever it is, I don't want it to happen."

Faith favored her with a beatific smile. "You are the most beautiful person I know."

"Well." Twirling a lock of coal-black hair through her fingers, the prostitute feigned maidenly coyness. "I have you to thank for it."

Ash's and my jaws dropped. On the tip of my tongue – and even more so on his, I was sure – hovered the fatal question, "Hollowed or not?"

But neither of us asked it.

Marshalling his mental resources, Ash said in a dazed sort of way, "Well, if that is all, I have a few things I need to discuss with Nyryx." _Alone_, his tone implied. "Isha, shall I meet you at the Temple to surveil the cult of the Unbroken Sun? We have an adept we need to shave some motes off."

"An adept you need to do _what_ to?" asked Nyryx, startled.

"I _did_ say that some of the reagents might be expensive," Faith observed silkily.

After regarding us thoughtfully for a moment, Nyryx seemed to decide that it was better for everyone involved if she didn't pry into our operations. With a curt nod, she said, "Well, I leave this in your capable hands."

Giving Faith's hands a very doubtful look (which, perversely, only made her preen), I echoed Ash's wording and said, "Okay, but I need to take care of a few things first. I'll meet you at the Temple this evening?"

Ash didn't mind. "That's fine. I need to pray anyway."

Although I wanted to stay and eavesdrop on his conversation, Faith slipped her arm through mine and tugged me out of Catcrawl Alley. As we left, all I caught was Nyryx's tantalizing, "I'm making good progress. I have a very solid lead…" before a strident bray from the Menagerie drowned out the rest of her words.


	39. Promises and More Promises

I'd actually been honest with Ash when I claimed to have a "few things" to take care of, and now I proved it by making a beeline south through the Docks and Crow's Foot to the Red Sash Sword Academy. Although Faith chugged after me like a poufy pink cloud, she declined to re-join or even audit my class.

"I'd _love_ to attend," she explained with apparent earnestness. "But I'm just not dressed for it! I'm afraid that this wire-reinforced lace might have a _disarming_ effect on any student whose sword gets caught in it." Holding up the top tier of her skirt, she dimpled as she displayed what was very much not wire-reinforced trim. "You wouldn't want to leave a student helpless in my clutches, would you?" With a mischievous wink, she darted forward, pecked me on the cheek before I could react, and skipped off with a "Toodle-loo!"

Where she'd picked up _that _expression, I didn't even want to know.

* * *

As I learned later from Irimina's maid, Faith popped up at the Kinclaith mansion bearing a spirit bottle tied with a pink bow three times the size of the cylinder itself. Bounding into the parlor, she presented it to a delighted Irimina with a flourish and the declaration, "I have dedicated _hours _of meditation, spell-casting, and arcane research to preparing this beauteous bequest befitting a beautiful lady!"

"I do like presents," remarked Irimina, daintily picking apart the wrapping with her long, elegant fingers.

("Her Ladyship let me have the ribbon after," the maid reported as an aside, twirling around to show off the bow in her hair. If Faith kept giving Irimina presents, she might very well start a fashion among the servant class. Gods help us all.)

As Irimina let the ribbon slither to the floor, Faith squeezed onto the settee next to her and leaned against her arm. "Inside this delicate crystal vial is the soul of one Iruvian assassin. Look at the swirls and spirals, the striations of blue and turquoise, as it beats against its cage, helpless to escape."

"Yes, I can see that," pronounced Irimina with a grim satisfaction that thoroughly unsettled the maid. Holding the bottle up to the light, she tilted it from side to side, watching Taji's murderer's soul tumble back and forth, feebly struggling to right itself.

Fishing up her lightning hook, Faith tapped the loop against the bottle, sending a little arc of lightning through the walls. In a pedantic way, she said, "Now look at how it squirms with the addition of a little electroplasmic energy."

The lightning practically fried the soul. It went bluish-white, spun like a miniature cyclone, and then exploded into ragged pieces that crashed into the sides and showered to the bottom, where they slowly, painfully re-coalesced. Her rapturous face glowing blue in the light of the spirit bottle, Irimina followed the fall of every last fragment.

"Souls, if they aren't fed, tend to go mad," Faith continued her Spectrology 101 lecture. "It's not clear whether the torture of a mad soul is quite as delectable as that of a sane one, but one can preserve a soul for years by feeding it little bits of electroplasmic energy, as I did just now. One can also shock it at unpredictable intervals just to watch it writhe. Or one can introduce it to a feral ghost that nibbles away at it as it screams in intense agony. So, Irimina – this is _your_ present. What do _you_ want to do with it?"

Without taking her eyes off the bottle, Irimina held out one hand and beckoned for the lightning hook. "Well, I suppose we should experiment to see what's most effective."

Faith pulled the lightning hook away and waited until Irimina tore her eyes from the bottle with an impatient frown. "Actually, I may have lied," Faith confessed sweetly.

Irimina's frown deepened.

"I may have _two_ presents for you, but the second hasn't quite materialized yet. Call it a _potential_ present."

Although the maid didn't understand Irimina's sudden look of terrible hope, I did.

_I want her dead – not the Consul, I'm told I can't do that_, Irimina had hissed the day she hired us to kill Na'ava Diala. Judging from that level of vitriol, Elstera Avrathi must have ordered Taji's murder herself.

Whether Faith guessed what Irimina was thinking or not, she explained in the same careless tone as before, "I have recently come into the possession of two somewhat interesting toys. I have been assured that they're very cute, and I've been tasked by their previous caretaker with finding them a nice new home."

("A pair of dogs or cats?" I asked the maid, wondering if Faith were trying to give away Sleipnir. She only shook her head. "Worse, miss.")

Irimina looked as if she were more interested in torturing Na'ava's soul than acquiring cute, somewhat interesting toys.

Smoothly, Faith continued, "I understand that sometimes pretty little things are in grave danger from stray nefarious forces, so it would be best if they went to someone who would protect them. Say, someone who wanted to preserve her family heritage by adopting Polonia and Andrel."

Recognition and then compassion (which the maid didn't understand at all) dawned on Irimina's face. "Oh, the Helker children. Yes, I read about that," she said in a quiet and completely sincere voice. "That was very sad."

Faith beamed in approval. "Yes, and now they need parents – or at least _a_ parent – so I went to the person best able to make an equitable arrangement."

("Are you sure _Mistress Karstas_ said that, and not Lady Irimina?" I asked skeptically. That really didn't sound like Faith_._ "Yes, miss?" answered the maid, as if she didn't quite trust her own ears either.)

"I understand that you're interested in continuing your family name, but your brother has no interest in…reproductive success, shall we say."

"Can you imagine Roethe's children?" cried Irimina, recoiling. "The mind reels!"

Her little brother was notable chiefly for his outrageous fashion sense (he wore only white and silver, _ever_) and his even more outrageous habit of using said fashion sense as a way to bait other nobles into insulting it so he could challenge, duel, and kill them. I supposed that was what happened when you were orphaned at an early age and needed to vent your rage on a cold, uncaring world.

As a measure of her focus, Faith ignored the comment about Roethe's potential offspring. "The Helker children have wealth – more than enough to support themselves – while you are a good person at heart, bear an aristocratic title, and, most importantly, have the power to protect them. There are many disillusioned Skovlanders who would look at them and see only the Helker resemblance, not the innocence of youth."

Forgotten for the moment, the spirit bottle lay still in Irimina's lap. "Those poor things," she said, dazed. "I…."

"Probably need some time to think about this."

With an effort, she forced herself back into the present. "I do. There are some…affairs I need to set in order first. But assuming everything else works out, I am absolutely willing to adopt them. You make a lot of good points and…and no one should have to grow up alone."

In a low voice, Faith said, "I agree. Their situation is most unfortunate. I will make the appropriate legal arrangements, then."

"Thank you." As if to close a painful subject, Irimina very deliberately picked up the bottle again and shook it as a terrier would a rat. "Now, you should show me a thing or two to do to this present."

Taking Faith's arm, she drew her to a private study where the maid could not (and did not want to) follow, where presumably they experimented with myriad ways to punish Na'ava Diala's soul.

* * *

While Faith was fulfilling her last promise to Tocker Helker, I was teaching my beginners how to fight in enclosed spaces, in case they ever found themselves facing fanatics in cupolas. Never let it be said that I loosed my students on Doskvol unprepared. In fact, a handful had improved so much that I might yield them to the intermediate class soon. Feeling an odd mix of pride and loss, I dismissed them all and ran upstairs to Mylera's office for our weekly chat. Now more than ever, I needed to prove to myself – and Sigmund – that I _could_ play peacemaker.

Mylera, as it turned out, had finally found a satisfactory purveyor of coffee beans, although given the state of Iruvian-Akorosian affairs, he wasn't optimistic that he'd be able to import more any time soon. (Now _that_ sounded like a new market for Irimina.)

"Diplomatic relations seem to have deteriorated unnaturally fast," I remarked, fishing for anything else he might have said.

"Too fast. Someone's pushing this," Mylera declared, her dark eyes grim.

Recalling my own crew's contribution to said deterioration, I cringed inwardly and made a mental note to investigate whether her "someone" were a nefarious, shadowy figure – or just the three of us. "Someone's pushing it?" I asked innocently. "Who would do such a thing?"

Troubled, she picked up a coffee bean and turned it over and over in her fingers. "I don't know," she replied frankly. "But the average citizen of the Imperium doesn't want another war. We just finished a thirty-six-year-long conflict with Skovlan. _Nobody_ wants to jump right back into that. And yet – somehow – there's a diplomatic frenzy."

I had to confess, if only to myself, that I was mildly surprised a gang leader in Crow's Foot kept abreast of inter-isle politics. "I can't understand what's going on there."

"Like I said," she repeated briskly, "I think someone has an agenda and is pushing it. As for who and what, I don't know. I'm an Ankhayat; it's not our department." Tardily, and more quietly, she corrected herself, "I _was_ an Ankhayat."

Studying her remote expression, I thought of the turrets and curtain walls of the Ankhayat estate, which lay to the northwest of ours, and how they overlooked the Vaasu school where she'd spent her childhood training to captain a leviathan hunter. I thought of the whispers surrounding her exile, the way she never addressed any of the rumors, and I wondered, for the first time, what she thought of them. Softly, I asked, "Mylera, why _did_ you leave Iruvia?"

She returned to Doskvol with a jolt, nearly crushing the coffee bean between her fingers. "Why did I leave _Iruvia_?" Her voice rose shrilly until she fought it back down. "Politics. What else?" In the face of my empathetic calm, she recited, "I got embroiled in inter-House warfare and did a lot of questionable things, and then it became clear that the House was going to throw me to the wolves. At that point I was done, and so I left."

I nodded slowly, as if I knew exactly what she meant. Which I did.

Somewhat defensively, she informed me, "It's _fine_. I don't even – I never want to go back. I _like_ life here. I've built something I can be proud of." Did any exile ever sever all her ties to her homeland? Mylera still followed Iruvian politics – to a much greater extent than I, in fact. "Am I a little bitter? Yes. Just a little. But – politics. What can you do?"

"I suppose…," I said dubiously.

"But _you_ know. The things you must have seen."

Oh yes. Oh yes, how I knew. For all the off-duty time I spent with the Lampblacks, Mylera had always understood me a lot better than Bazso ever would. Closing my eyes briefly, I nodded my comprehension and then, as if trying to change the subject – which maybe I was, just a little – I hinted, "Speaking of things you've built and are proud of, the Hive is trying to take all of that."

Busying herself with her coffee grinder, Mylera raised her voice over the crunching. "Yes, it's true. It's true." Abruptly, she set down the grinder with a thud and eyeballed me suspiciously. "Is this about the Lampblacks again?"

I took a different tack and deployed my (very real) frustration. "For someone who is usually very reasonable and very practical, you're being – " At her glare, I quickly amended the rest of the sentence. "Why won't you just _meet_ with them?"

Much to my surprise, she mused, "Maybe I should…. It might be good to have a truce, not to be fighting a war on two fronts."

"It would certainly free up a lot of resources," I agreed, watching her spoon ground coffee into the machine.

Since I was paying more attention to her hands than to her face, she caught me off guard when she whirled and gave me a long, hard look. "So something occurs to me, Glass: Why are you so very, very insistent that it has to be the Lampblacks?" I opened my mouth to point out that they were a major gang in the Crow's Foot and hence a logical choice, but she overrode me. "Because there are a _lot_ of other options."

As indignantly as I could, I protested, "Like Lyssa? I offered and offered to investigate the Crows. _You_ turned it down, remember?"

She dismissed it with an impatient wave. "No, I don't want to ally with Lyssa. But there are the Billhooks. The Grinders. I could even look for assistance from other districts. So – why Bazso?" Planting her hands on her desk, she leaned forward and enunciated in a menacing tone, "_What is he paying you to do_?"

Lifting my chin defiantly, I met and held her glare. "The same thing you're paying me to do."

"Okay," she snapped, "but which one of us do you _actually_ work for?" Sudden, horrible realization dawned on her face, and in one swift movement, she lunged around the desk. "Or are you being an Anixis and playing both ends against the middle, in which case, _to what end_?"

It took every ounce of self-control I had, but I stayed seated, hands curled loosely around the armrests of my chair as if I had nothing to fear. "Which do _you_ think it is?" I challenged.

She'd known too many of my family to be fooled. "I think it's the latter, and I'd like to know what you think you're accomplishing here."

With her looming over me, fists clenched, face full of hate, it was hard to think, hard even to breath. "The greater good," I proclaimed, but it came out weakly, more like a squeak than a ringing affirmation. "It does no one any good when the two most powerful gangs in Crow's Foot are at each other's throats."

Mylera's cold eyes held mine, held and judged and condemned me. With dangerous self-control, she demanded, "Why does House Anixis care what goes on in Crow's Foot?"

Did she really believe that my House concerned itself with petty turf wars in downtrodden districts of Doskvol? "House Anixis _doesn't_ care," I retorted. "_I_ do."

"So why do _you_ care what goes on in Crow's Foot?"

This time, my indignation was entirely unfeigned. "Because I live – well, lived – here."

Perhaps the partial honesty calmed her, or perhaps she wasn't actually mentally prepared to murder a fellow ex-noble exile right that instant. Pulling back so quickly that I nearly gasped in relief, she stalked around her desk and flung herself into her chair. "I need to think about this. Get out."

I went.

* * *

On my way to the Temple to the Forgotten Gods, I dropped by the Leaky Bucket to have Sawbones check my arm, for once hoping that Bazso _wouldn't_ be there. Even though I knew that he wouldn't mind about Sigmund, the nature of my, well, relations with my brother was…unconventional, to put it mildly. Bazso would take it in stride, of course; after the first shock, he'd simply raise his eyebrows, shake his head, and dismiss it as one more Iruvian quirk that no Skovlander could hope to penetrate – but I couldn't handle it just then.

Naturally, my streak of bad luck held, and Bazso summoned me to his booth as soon as I entered the pub. "Sawbones said you had quite the adventure," he remarked, scanning me up and down for any fresh, gaping wounds. (Lately, it seemed that every time I saw him, I sported a new injury.)

"You could put it that way." Craning my head conspicuously, I pretended to search for the doctor. "Have you seen Sawbones?"

With a frown for my stiffness, Bazso ran one finger along my cast. "You all right?"

I'd have thought my body language answered _that_ one.

Drawing the same conclusion, he told me, "He's in the back."

Although I'd hoped Bazso would respect physician-patient confidentiality, he drifted into the storeroom after me and hovered while Sawbones inspected my arm and mumbled about how fast it was healing.

No matter my mood, I had to warn the Lampblacks about the Red Sashes' imminent overture. That was, as Mylera would put it, my department. Without looking at Bazso, I muttered, "I need to talk to you."

"All right." He immediately shooed Sawbones into the common room and lounged against the table, folding his arms comfortably across his chest. The relaxed pose didn't fool me: His reaction time was just as short as Mylera's. "What's up? You seem really preoccupied."

"Hmmm?" I was swinging my legs and contemplating the wood grain and stains, not all of them from food. "Oh, no, it's nothing. You should get a message from Mylera soon suggesting a truce and a meeting."

"Will I now," he stated, carefully neutral.

I picked at a splinter on the edge of the table. "Yes. I think so, anyway."

Bazso stayed silent long enough for me to glance up at him warily. Then he remarked thoughtfully, "You know, Isha, you've been working awfully hard on something I told you I didn't want."

"As it turns out, she didn't want it either," I said bitterly. "But it's for the greater good."  
"Well, maybe," he conceded, then confided in a rush, "I can see the Hive's jaws closing. It could be worth it to spend an evening at Tangletown, see if we can hammer something out."

"It's a good idea," I said listlessly.

"Yes." He paused again, blue eyes considering my slumped shoulders, and came to a quick decision. "All right, Isha. You win this time. I'll talk to her – _if_ she sends me a message. I'm certainly not going to beg her to parley."

"You'll get a message," I replied with a confidence I didn't entirely feel. Mylera had been _very _angry, possibly even angry enough to hurt her own interests to spite me, although she wouldn't view it that way. Fiddling restlessly with my cast, I added, "I might have to make myself scarce in Crow's Foot for the next while."

"Why?" he demanded. "What did you _do_?"

"It's more what other people have done. Or will do."

A little hesitantly, he offered, "Isha, I don't want to impugn your abilities, but if there are more people after you than you can handle, I've got the boys." He jerked a thumb at the door to the common room. "We can break their legs."

It was so unexpected and so sweet that I almost laughed. "I don't think it's something where breaking legs will help, but thank you all the same."

Bazso took a minute to process this revelation that there were problems that breaking legs _didn't_ solve. "Okay," he agreed, more to humor me than anything else. "Hey, don't be so sad." He put a comforting arm around my shoulders, and I leaned into him and pressed my face against his chest, feeling guilty over my own cattiness. "What happened?" he asked again, gently.

"It's complicated," I said into his shirt. "Promise you won't hate me no matter what you find out?"

"Ummmmm." Despite his soft spot for me, Bazso had, after all, survived this long as gang leader. He didn't promise. "Isha, what did you _do_?"

I whispered, "I think I got in over my head in something."

"You know, people say that about a lot of things." Pulling back to arm's length, he donned his faction leader hat and delivered an inspirational pep talk. "When the Lampblacks became a gang – as opposed to a bunch of guys who just lit lamps – everyone said that we were in way over our heads and that we wouldn't last three months. But I ignored them, because I knew we had something. Often, when people tell you that you're in over your head, you should ignore them, because you're taller than you think." Taller than Sigmund, the Patriarch, and Grandfather combined? Tall enough not to drown in the currents of House Anixis? "You've got a good crew, a lot of people who really care about you. You are extremely capable."

So capable that I'd led my brother to my own doorstep and given away my game to Mylera. Capable indeed. I laughed a little, feeling bitter.

Blissfully ignorant of the implosion that was my life, Bazso assured me, "You'll be okay. Just let me know if you need to break any heads, yeah?"

I laughed again, almost a sob. "I will." I didn't know what made me promise, "I'll tell you what happened sometime."

Bazso just nodded his understanding and left his arm around me until I finally pushed myself off the table and went to meet Ash.


	40. Assorted Preparations

After all the drama of the past two days, identifying an adept of the Unbroken Sun proved surprisingly easy. To allay Ilacille's suspicions, Ash pretended to give me a tour of the Temple to the Forgotten Gods while we monitored the comings and goings of other cultists, all of whom seemed to have adopted a uniform of long cloaks with deep hoods. When three thusly attired figures strode up to the altar of the Unbroken Sun, Ash immediately launched into a fervent prayer to That Which Hungers, under cover of which I surveilled our targets.

_Those two on the left are definitely acolytes_, I hand-signed to Ash, who set up the Financiopoly gameboard and invited me to make the first move. _The third guy is their leader, but I can't tell if he's an adept._

Knocking a counter onto the floor "by accident," Ash dove for it and cast an expert glance over the cultists. _Yes. That's our man_, he signed back.

We played a distracted game of Financiopoly while the Unbroken Sun worshippers performed their ritual, at the end of which a bright, bizarrely yellow glow flared on the altar, and then tailed them when they left the Temple. Conveniently, the three stayed together until they reached Charterhall University, where the acolytes split off in the direction of student housing. The adept, on the other hand, led us straight into the Morlan Hall of Unnatural Philosophy. Creeping down eerie corridors lined with glass cases of taxidermied creatures and withered plants from the deathlands, we watched from five doors down as he let himself into an office and shut the door. After waiting for a few minutes to make sure he wouldn't come right back out, we ambled past, feigning fascination with some deformed mushrooms.

Engraved on a bronze plaque on the door were the words: "Dr. Jamison Pritchard, Dean of the School of Unnatural Philosophy, Professor of Comparative Religions."

Ash and I didn't even need a pre-defined hand sign to express our triumph.

* * *

Strolling back towards the Old Rail Yard, we happened to pass a bar packed to the brim with off-duty lawyer types in their sober black suits. Through the front window, I caught a glimpse of a familiar figure at the polished counter, plying the Helker children's legal guardian with drinks. I poked Ash in the arm and pointed. At the sight of Faith surrounded by stolid lawyers and wearing something bordering on socially acceptable, Ash cocked his head to a side and raised his eyebrows quizzically. I nodded back. Without a word, we walked in, sat down at a nearby table, and ordered a round of beers while we eavesdropped on, er, waited for her.

Faith's new friend was declaring with tipsy passion, "It's been an absolute _nightmare_ of a week! I have these clients, and they're underage, and there are all these _cousins_, and I'm trying _so_ hard to protect their funds but it's _so_ difficult…." He dropped his head into his hands, narrowly missing his wineglass.

Faith quickly moved it out of the way. "It could be worse, Mr. Colburn," she pointed out with a sly smile that was entirely lost on the solicitor. "There could be Skovlander revolutionary assassins after them."

Colburn groaned and groped for his wineglass until Faith slid it back into his fingers. "There _are_, though! And what if Ulf Ironborn says to himself, 'Oh, perfect, now I can finally make these poor children pay for their parent's sins!'" Faith's green eyes sparkled with approval at the alliteration as he chugged down his sherry. "You cannot _imagine_ the headache this has been. It was all right when their parents were alive because no one would _dream_ of messing with their mother, but now…. It's a nightmare, a complete _nightmare_! Do you have any _idea_ how much private security costs?"

Faith's sympathetic smile hinted that she did and that she shared his agony. "What did the parents want?" she inquired, swirling around her own glass of sherry but not, I noticed, drinking it. "Did they leave anything about their wishes? Or are you flying blind?"

"No, no, they left a will and set up a trust to provide for all the kids' financial needs, but they're underage, which means they need a legal guardian, so that's me, except all the cousins say that _they're_ kin so _they_ should be the legal guardians of the vast Helker for– " More discreet than the last lawyer Faith interviewed, he quickly backtracked, "I mean, the vast family fortune, so they're all building legal cases, which means that _my_ firm has to work overtime to combat all of their stupid legal cases!" Colburn blathered on in that vein for a while, demonstrating the fine oratorical skills he'd learned in law school.

Smiling all the time, Faith nodded along and refilled his wineglass as necessary. "Maybe I'm overstepping here," she said tentatively when the solicitor finally paused for breath, "but surely there's some sort of thinking-outside-the-box solution."

"Is there?" he asked morosely.

"I don't know. Maybe you could…um, adopt them to somebody?" she suggested casually.

Draining his glass with a speed that would have made even Sawbones wince, Colburn moaned, "Uggh, but how do I know that _they_ don't just want to get their hands on the fortune? How would I even vet that?"

"Can you hold the fortune in trust for the kids until they come of age? If the adopter isn't related, they'd have no claim to it."

Faint hope flickered in the solicitor's eyes as he grasped that maybe, just maybe, he could – with a clean conscience, no less – dump the children and their private security costs onto someone else. "Mmmm, presumably, yeah. Although there would still be a monthly allowance…."

"There has to be – to pay for tutors and such." Faith leaned forward on her elbows, lowered her voice, and confided, "Now, I hope I'm not being presumptuous, but I happened to hear of a noblewoman who – I really shouldn't be saying this – " She made a rueful noise and continued in a stage whisper, "But I think she might be barren, and she'd really like to pass on the family name."

"Poor woman. That _is_ a nightmare," agreed Colburn, who seemed to have found a favorite word and was sticking to it. "Inheritance issues can be – " he exerted himself and applied a different word – "tricky. So who is it?"

Making a show of glancing around the bar, as if she feared that the noblewoman in question might frequent Charterhall drinking establishments, Faith whispered, "Lady Irimina Kinclaith."

Colburn's eyes opened wide. "Lady Irimina? Hmmmm…that's not a bad idea." Faith looked as if she had to swallow a retort that she _only_ came up with good ideas. "That might solve all the problems, if she's suitable. I'll look into this. Yeah, that really might solve all the problems! Thank you." He lifted his wineglass in a toast. "I'm glad you happened to sit down, miss."

Faith kept him company until he was too drunk to remember her face, then ordered one more bottle of sherry, bade him good night, and traipsed towards the door. When she passed our table, she skidded to a halt as if stunned by her good fortune. "Why, hello there! I never expected to run into the two of you here!" she cried.

"Yes, well, it was a most fortuitous coincidence," Ash replied drily. "Shall we?"

The three of us exited the bar, Ash and I taking turns to update Faith about Pritchard and the cult of the Unbroken Sun. At the end, she flung out her arms and twirled in a circle right in the middle of the street. If I'd thought she had wisdom to impart regarding the score, I was sadly mistaken.

"Isha! I was surprised to see you at the bar – I mean, if I saw you, it must mean you're slipping." She shook her head sententiously. "Tsk tsk." Then she flounced off down the street.

Since this was obviously a challenge, I followed.

* * *

Back to Six Towers the two of us went, Faith skipping along gaily, me steadily tailing her in the shadows. Near Rowan Bridge, I leaned casually against a doorway and surveyed my surroundings, while Faith headed directly to the center of the bridge. Once there, her entire demeanor changed: Her shoulders hunched over, her fingers clenched in her skirts, and she paced back and forth as if too agitated to stand still. When that act failed to attract whatever attention she craved, she sighed, rolled her eyes, and started toying with nearby spirits, pulling them to her and then pushing them away.

Eventually, a familiar glowing figure drifted into sight, head angled to a side inquisitively.

"Oh, why, hello there, dearest!" exclaimed Faith, as if startled to see Cricket in the little ghost's own, preferred stomping grounds.

Cricket floated casually over to the railing and settled down where Tocker Helker had sat, staring stoically into the black waters as he waited for his wife. "Hello."

Faith's face lit up like a lightning tower. "Actually, you may be just the person to help me with a problem that's been plaguing me!"

"I can help with problems," Cricket agreed, half-turning away like a cat that wanted to conceal its interest.

Darting to the railing, Faith leaned all the way over it to peer into the canal, pulling off the show of disinterest far better than the ghost. (Although part of me kept expecting someone to run up and push her in.) "You see, I have this dire, dastardly endeavor planned, and I could use some extra help – but, oh, what am I saying? It's too dangerous for you. It wouldn't even be appropriate to _ask_ you, despite the rewards…."

Cricket sank right through the railing to hover near Faith's head. "What rewards?" she demanded.

Nonchalantly, Faith straightened and turned back towards the road into Six Towers, smoothing her skirts as she did so. "Well, I guess it would be coin for humans and electroplasmic energy for spirits…but you really shouldn't worry about it. It would be far too dangerous for a little ghost like yourself. I couldn't make _any_ guarantees for your safety…."

"What do you need?" Cricket pestered her, sweeping around to hang mid-air in front of the Whisper every time she tried to leave.

After much circumlocution, Faith finally divulged that she needed help with "scouting" and "crowd control," although because of the delicate nature of the score, whomever she hired would have to be exceedingly cautious.

"I can be pretty careful when I need to be," Cricket assured her. "Can I borrow your body afterwards?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Faith, as if the thought had never occurred to her. "For a bit," she conceded.

"Okay," agreed Cricket eagerly. "Like for an hour or two?"

Instead of answering, Faith asked, "And what is it that a ghost like you needs to do with a body like mine?"

Cricket's expression actually turned chagrined, the corners of her mouth drooping and her eyes sliding to a side. "You know – stuff." If she could have scuffed a toe, she would have. Faith simply arched an eyebrow and waited. "I need to kill some people." As Cricket uttered those words, she briefly lost control of her sanity and fuzzed around the edges, but she quickly pulled herself back together. "You said – when you said that we might be able to come to some sort of arrangement – that one of the things on the table was revenge."

"_I_ said that one of the things on the table was revenge…," Faith repeated slowly, as if trying to recall what exactly she'd semi-promised a semi-sane ghost.

"You said it," Cricket pressed. She darted forward and twined around Faith's chest, circling again and again like a determined cat. "You said it. You said it. That was a thing you said."

Entirely unconcerned, Faith petted her and assured her lazily, "Oh, I have no objections to _revenge _per se. It just seems unnecessarily risky to loan out my body when someone more practiced in its use is willing to commit the murder herself."

"But _I_ want to do it."

Still petting Cricket absently, Faith thought for a long moment. At last, she said, "Well, in that case, I hope your dedication to this score will be enough to make up for the risk to me."

The little ghost nodded vigorously.

"All right, then I think we have ourselves an arrangement." With an air of amusement, Faith surveyed herself and noted all the glowing blue streaks of electroplasm twined around her torso. It looked pretty alarming. "Now, dear, can you disentangle yourself from me before my friend over there panics and runs both of us through?"

I was a little offended by the suggestion that I'd run Faith through because I _panicked._


	41. Jamison Pritchard

Now that we'd found an adept of the Unbroken Sun, all we had to do was shave a handful of motes off him. To me, after seeing the dusty display cases and dirty floors in Morlan Hall, the solution was obvious. Back in our railcar, I recommended, "We can just pay him for them. Professors don't make much, and they always need more research funding."

At least, that was true from what I'd seen of academia. Technically, neither Sigmund nor I (nor any of our cousins, for that matter) had ever attended formal school. (Our parents had engaged private tutors from all over the Imperium to teach us natural and unnatural philosophy, history and literature, combat and spy craft.) However, the Vaasu School lay in easy walking distance of our estate. Even if House Ankhayat didn't exactly throw open its doors for public tours – _especially_ not for young Anixises – we'd simply impersonated students as espionage practice. I'd snuck into my share of lectures and dining halls and explored the campus quite thoroughly, all with the tacit blessing of our House. With its gleaming, metal-capped towers and marble lacework arches, the Vaasu School was obviously on much better financial footing than Charterhall University, and yet I'd still heard scholars aplenty grumbling about research funding – or the lack thereof.

Jamison Pritchard needed coin to buy lab equipment and pay his graduate students. We needed a few motes of the Unbroken Sun. What could be more straightforward than a simple exchange?

Gods, Ash's obsession with finance was infecting my worldview.

To my surprise, the devotee of That Which Hungers shook his head with a rueful smile. "I considered that too. _My _god certainly thinks it's a reasonable option, but it won't work. Even though hurting the Church is a great cause and everyone should be allowed the privilege of self-sacrifice, we'd all prefer it to be someone else."

The _privilege_ of self-sacrifice, indeed. "What's the big deal about giving up a few motes?" I objected. "Isn't it like trimming your fingernails?"

"No, it's more like chopping off an arm."

"Is it?" drawled Faith from her perch on the bar. Her voice lightly mocking, she inquired, "Does that mean that when you harvested motes from the Golden Stag, you were really hacking off a haunch of venison?"

Caught in a gross exaggeration, Ash flushed and corrected himself. "Well, okay, maybe it's more like a finger. Regardless, it's sacrilegious to harm your god, and Jamison Pritchard _is_ an adept of the Unbroken Sun."

"What exactly is an adept anyway?" I asked.

Face ablaze with remembered glory, Ash explained in a hushed, reverent tone, "Adepts are those who have opened their minds to the thought-tendrils of their god and accepted its holy presence into themselves."

Weeks ago, I'd witnessed for him as he offered himself to That Which Hungers in exchange for power. He'd never quite been the same, after that.

"With sufficient training, adepts can manifest their god and grant those around them a vision of its glory." Ash's eyes glowed with religious fervor, as if he yearned for the day he achieved that step. Then, catching himself, he concluded more practically, "Basically, we need to make Pritchard manifest the Unbroken Sun so we can harvest its motes."

In an offhanded sort of way, Faith observed, "My experience with religious fanatics is that they'd rather die than allow their god to be harmed."

"Yes, well, worshippers of the Golden Stag proved weaker in this regard," Ash shrugged, "so who knows about the Unbroken Sun? But if it comes to torture, we'll do what's necessary."

Or Faith would, at any rate. She already had the requisite toolkit.

I thought back to the spa score and how everything had gone sideways when the target's god showed up to save her. "If we threaten or knock out Pritchard, does that mean the Unbroken Sun will manifest?"

"Probably. That's certainly what happened with Helene," answered Ash.

"It's probably better to manufacture a situation where Pritchard summons his god without knowing our intentions," Faith noted seemingly absentmindedly. She'd pulled out a notebook and was doodling wildly impractical dress designs. "Maybe he could do it while he angrily assaults an enemy cult."

Ash considered, then embellished on her idea. "I have a proposal. It's not the most savory of options, but we can encourage the Church to attack the cult of the Unbroken Sun. Then Pritchard will have no choice but to manifest his god to save his followers. Hopefully, we can manage the size of the assault so it doesn't completely wipe out the cult…." He didn't seem too concerned with the fate of a his fellow forgotten god worshippers, though.

Faith dismissed his idea at once. "Nah, the Church would just send spirit wardens. But…oh! We can pretend to be an upstart demonic cult that only the Unbroken Sun is capable of stopping!" Getting excited, she tossed aside her notebook and started waving her arms and legs around. "As we're deep in the throes of a dark, depraved, _blood-soaked_ rite to invoke a greater demon, this adept will lead a desperate raid on our lair and summon his god in a last-ditch, do-or-die attempt to stop us and save Doskvol from utter destruction! And then – thenwe shall_ striiiiike_." She drew out the last word with relish, then dimpled at both of us.

"Speaking as a member of one of these cults," Ash pointed out skeptically, "I would hesitate to go out on a limb to protect a city that barely tolerates my worship."

"But the Unbroken Sun hates demons with the fiery passion of a thousand…unbroken suns! He would take it _personally_."

Lost in my own thoughts about blood-soaked rituals and greater demons, I'd only half-followed her theatrics. Somewhat at random, I announced, "I don't like any of this."

As usual, they ignored me.

"Oh!" cried Faith, eyes wide with revelation. "Oh! I have it! We kidnap one of _their_ members to use as our sacrifice in our fake demonic ritual!"

Hastily, I pulled myself together and rejoined the conversation before my crewmates could commit me to anything _more_ unsavory. "Just to be clear: We're not _actually_ sacrificing anyone, right?"

"Of course not!" Faith gave me the most innocent expression ever, full of sugar and spice and fluffy bunnies.

"But we'd be willing to, if we had to," Ash clarified.

Faith shot him a toothy grin and leaned towards me. "We'll hunt down one of their low-tier members – a pet, a mascot, someone they're attached to, like Vhetin Kellis and the Hive – and kidnap them," she explained eagerly. "We'll leave clues of a demonic nature at the crime scene: runes scratched onto the walls, little bits of demonic flesh, a notebook, an address, whatnot. Or we'll spread rumors of demonic worship in the neighborhood. I can make myself very obvious!" (There was no "can" about it.) "I'll wander around in dark robes, buying copious quantities of goat blood and chanting loudly late at night!" She beamed at us, kicking her legs so her skirts frothed and swirled. "You see? We'll disguise ourselves as a demonic cult that's new and hence really bad at hiding! Oooh, my seamstress is going to have a field day!"

Oh, well, as long as Faith's _seamstress_ was happy, then obviously everything was going to be just fine.

* * *

True to her word, Faith immediately commissioned three sets of long, black, hooded robes from her presumably enthusiastic seamstress. More usefully, she dispatched Cricket to comb the Unbroken Sun acolytes for a likely kidnappee. The little ghost identified one Marston Haig, a second-year student at Charterhall University who opted to save money by living in Six Towers instead of university housing.

Under Faith's careful supervision, we moved into that same abandoned mansion we'd used to ambush Kamilin and adorned the ballroom with all manner of demonic-themed paraphernalia. Ash even hired a Coalridge tinkerer to rig up a flashy trance powder release mechanism on the rusty chandelier, but the crowning glory was electroplasmic decorations that would blaze up in a portal-like light show. While I lurked in a corner and looked on moodily, Faith sang and danced around our "ritual chamber," painting the walls with intricate sigils and splattering goat blood all over her frilly white dress. Personally, I found the entire production uncomfortably reminiscent of home, even if our Demon Princes were far more sophisticated about the sacrifices they required.

A stray, amused thought that wasn't mine drifted across my mind. _No, I'd never be that_ _vulgar. Not unless it was useful._

Trust Grandfather to get curious about our fake demonic ritual! I was about to shove Ixis out of my head when epiphany struck: Turmoil in the Church might distract the Imperium from Iruvia.

Swathing myself in black robes, I cast a "I'll be back later" over my shoulder at my crewmates. I then proceeded to haunt the neighborhood, posing as a cult recruiter and leaving in my wake a trail of sinister tales and jittery residents. ("I think she's secretly curious about the pleasure demons," Faith stage-whispered to Ash when she knew I was listening.)

Two days passed in this way. Our neighbors grumbled, as neighbors would, about noise violations and the unsanitary effects of rancid goat blood. A few even half-heartedly circulated a petition for an ordinance against cultic activities in residential zones. I felt confident that word would soon reach Pritchard's ears.

* * *

It was late on the second night when we glanced out the ballroom window and caught sight of Marston skulking right across the street from us. As conspicuous as a torch in his bright yellow robes, he was trying and failing to hide in the shadows while scouting our mansion. Even as we watched, he stepped directly under a streetlight and signaled urgently to an acolyte on the next block.

In concert, Ash and I exploded out the front door.

Flapping his robes like a giant bat, Ash prowled around Marston. With a flourish, he produced an oversized, saw-toothed dagger whose point gleamed wickedly, and mumbled to himself, "Yes, oh yes, that should be seven, maybe seven-and-a-half liters, a bit scrawny, but he should do…."

While the poor student cast fearful eyes at the knife and edged backwards, I snuck up behind him and seized him in a chokehold. Panicking, he wheezed and swatted uselessly at my arm, displaying a complete ignorance of self-defense skills. Realizing that there was no risk he'd squirm free, I loosened my hold slightly and allowed him to draw breath to scream.

He didn't disappoint. "Please, let me go! Help! Heeeeeeelp!"

Down the street, the other acolyte tensed and gripped handfuls of her robes, raising them from her boots and preparing to sprint to his aid. All of a sudden, a glowing blue form zipped into her, and she spun on her heel and tore off down the street instead.

The commotion was attracting attention from the spectral denizens of the neighborhood. All around us, translucent, ragged forms began to rise from chimneys and drift out of attic windows.

Faith's silhouette appeared in our doorway. Nonchalantly, she flicked her lightning hook once, and all the ghosts stiffened and froze in place. Then she twirled it in a tight circle, and the horde immediately streamed into top floor of our mansion as if sucked by a whirlpool.

While the Whisper dealt with the neighbors, so to speak, I hauled Marston unceremoniously into our ritual chamber and heaved him onto the altar, which she'd streaked liberally with dried and fresh goat blood. Our kidnappee gibbered and flailed and smeared blood all over his robes, but made no effective escape attempt.

Acting as if he were deeply offended by the sacrificial victim's lack of dignity, Ash complained, "We may need to reconsider the value of this offering. His cowardice will not be pleasing to our demonic lord."

"Please! Oh, please!" gasped Marston, too terrified to form a coherent sentence.

"But demons are capricious, after all. We shall simply have to see if he will accept this tribute."

Flipping Marston over, Ash ripped open the yellow robes to reveal an expanse of soft, pale skin. Then he pulled out a glowing blue crystal and started to chant nonsensically while etching very familiar runes into the student's back.

"Wait!" I protested, starting forward. "What are you doing?"

Grabbing my arm, Faith tugged me to the side. "_Shhhh_!" she stage-whispered. "Not in front of the sacrificial victim!"

"What's he doing?" I hissed. "I thought we were just using him as bait!"

She waved at Ash to continue, and he happily increased his volume. He even attuned to the ghost field to call forth dark wisps that swirled around the two of them like a malevolent fog.

"He's only going to take, oh, fifty percent of his life essence," Faith assured me. "The boy will be just fine."

As Marston pleaded piteously for his life, the crystal tip halted abruptly as if Ash just had a sudden revelation. Turning the student back over, he raised his arms, his wide sleeves rippling dramatically in the lamplight. "Give this benighted young man a glimpse of the greater god!" With one coal-black fingertip, he touched the very center of Marston's forehead.

Marston's eyes rolled back and he went completely catatonic.

"Ugggh!" Faith stormed over, poked Marston vigorously, and tsked in what might have been actual annoyance. "Ash," she complained, "we wanted him conscious and screaming. Now how will we lure in the rest of his cult?"

"Well, That Which Hungers was slightly more overwhelming than expected," Ash defended himself. "It sometimes happens like that the first time."

Faith rolled her eyes to express her opinion of religious fanatics and deliberately turned her back on him and the altar. "Cricket, darling," she trilled, and the little ghost streaked out of a corner of the ceiling. "Do be a dear and possess this human, will you? We need him to scream very, very loudly."

Obediently, Cricket started to sink into Marston. At once, she recoiled and whimpered, "It burns! He's full of god tendrils!"

"Well, I did warn you the work would be dangerous, didn't I?" Nevertheless, Faith had to help the little ghost wriggle into Marston's body.

Just as Cricket opened his mouth and loosed a blood-curdling shriek, six cultists in identical, ill-fitting yellow robes burst into the ritual chamber.

In the lead was Pritchard himself. When he caught sight of us arrayed around the bloody, half-naked figure of his acolyte, he bellowed, "There they are!"

As if they'd rehearsed the move for a classroom skit, the five acolytes whipped out revolvers and pointed them at us.

Electroplasm steaming off her in waves, Cricket tumbled out of the Marston's body, collected herself, and looked determinedly at Faith for further instructions.

In a cold, clipped tone, Pritchard ordered, "Surrender now. You're badly outnumbered. Perhaps we'll be lenient."

At that, Ash unleashed a truly evil cackle of glee.

Faith, on the other hand, threw open her arms and flung back her head, rapture written in every line of her body. "With the power of a greater demon behind us, we will never need to surrender to anyone ever again – especially not some meddlesome kids! O demonic lord, smite them with thy demonic powers! Any second now!" To the cultists: "It's too late to stop us!"

Pritchard gestured sharply, and the acolytes fired at her.

Two bullets smashed into the wall on either side of her, one somehow buried itself in the ceiling, and then Cricket whipped around in a blur of blue light and slapped the rest out of the way. Little metallic clinks sounded from the floor as metal struck marble. If that pitiful display were any indication of the cultists' fighting skills, then they were very badly outmatched.

"Hehehehehe!" cackled Ash.

"The strength of our righteous conviction shall serve as a shield that can never be shattered!" proclaimed Faith, sounding as if she were quoting from a penny dreadful. "One true believer is worth a thousand infidels!"

Pritchard ran an exasperated hand through his thinning hair. The poor man looked as frustrated as a professor dealing with students who never showed up to class, never turned in homework, never took exams, and yet somehow still had the gall to protest that he couldn't just _fail_ them. "Cultists!" he spat. "This _always_ happens. They _always_ think they can summon a massive demon and it will be more than I can handle because I'm just a flabby, balding, middle-aged academic – because they don't realize that I can_ manifest a god_!"

And he did.

The most beautiful golden light I'd ever seen – warm and comforting and terrible all at the same time – poured from his skin and lit the room like the fires of U'Du.

Apart from Faith, everyone, including his own acolytes, froze in place and gaped at him in awe. A formless dread rose like smoke to cloud my mind, but I'd already experienced that with the Golden Stag and knew how to react. Ruthlessly, I stomped it down.

Beside me, Ash shook his head hard, as if rejecting a heathen idol.

After a moment, the acolytes began to stir again, blinking and murmuring reverently.

"We stand resolute and uncorrupted in our devotion to our demonic lord!" trumpeted Faith. "Infidel! Did you truly believe that you could deceive us with pyrotechnic light shows?" Nodding regally in my direction, she commanded, "Unleash the hounds!"

Whipping out Grandfather, I lunged at the nearest acolyte in an attack I'd learned from one of Mylera's sword masters, a flashy sequence designed to intimidate rather than kill.

_I can help_, offered Grandfather, sounding as if he relished the novelty of dueling forgotten god cultists.

_No thanks_.

The acolyte, a pale, bookish sort, promptly dropped his gun and fumbled with his sword, which got stuck in its scabbard. Wrestling with the hilt, he cried, "Help me!"

Two of his classmates shook off the last of their ecstasy and staggered forward with half-raised blades. How cute.

Meanwhile, Ash began to chant harsh, guttural syllables while glowering at a fourth acolyte. Hiding the motion behind his robes, he flipped a switch on the altar, and a plume of white powder spewed out of the chandelier. Three acolytes, including two of the ones I was "fighting," crumpled to the floor, giggling and mumbling incoherently. Unfortunately, Pritchard had been barely in range of the trance powder trap, and he leaped backwards as soon as the chandelier rattled.

I drove my last opponent into a corner and pinned him there.

Unnoticed off to the side, Faith picked up Ash's knife, patted the still-catatonic Marston on the chest, and told Cricket, "All right, here's how this will go: The awesome power of his god will wake him just before I plunge this sacrificial dagger into his heart. He'll roll off the altar, stagger over to his friends, and then collapse into their arms, overwhelmed by his ordeal. Go!"

Cricket gamely crawled back into Marston, fitting herself in between all the god tendrils. An instant later, his eyes flew open.

Faith stabbed downward with all her strength, "Marston" uttered an incoherent cry and tumbled to the floor, and the blade shattered on the altar right where his heart had been seconds earlier.

"Nooooooooooo!"

Faith screeched with diabolical fury as "Marston" scrambled towards his friends and fainted right on top of the fifth acolyte. She desperately disentangled herself, hauled him to his feet, and supported him out of the room. "I'll get him home, sir!" she called over her shoulder at Pritchard.

The adept spun around, realized that all his allies had been neutralized, and raised his palm. I prepared to duck, but he shot a bolt of blinding light at Faith. Dropping the broken dagger with a clatter, she mostly jumped out of the way, but the edge of the fireball caught her and washed over her and bathed her in flames. The horrible smell of burnt silk and flesh filled the room. Then the fire went out, leaving her limned in a faint golden glow.

While Pritchard's attention was on Faith, Ash charged him. "The star of your cult is falling fast! Even unmanifest, the raw force of my demon easily overpowers your god!" He began chanting to start the mote-harvesting ritual.

As Pritchard spun around and turned on Ash, I darted forward and waved my blade to distract the adept. (Behind me, the acolyte scurried out the door.)

I wasn't fast enough. Pritchard channeled a blast of concentrated sunlight at Ash, who didn't have time to dodge. Fiery light rolled over him the way it had Faith, and the awful, charred smell grew stronger. Ash's hand trembled, but he gritted his teeth and traced runes in the air.

Slipping up behind Pritchard, I struck him on the back of the head with Grandfather's hilt.

He collapsed to the floor. Tendrils of the Unbroken Sun began to drain out of his body, pooling on the marble like liquid fire and vaporizing.

Leaping forward, Ash grabbed for the golden light. It streamed between his fingers, but he managed to twirl a few wisps into little shimmery balls, which he captured in a bottle like so many fireflies. Gasping for breath, he screwed the lid tight and sealed it with a rune.

And then the Unbroken Sun was gone, leaving behind his unconscious adept and three snoring acolytes.

I glanced around, assessed the room quickly, and finally sheathed Grandfather, exhaling in relief. A thin filament of her usual self, Cricket edged through the doorway and sidled up to Faith, who was smiling in an exceedingly smug manner. Tucking the bottle securely into his pocket, Ash rolled Pritchard onto his front and tore open his robes.

"Ash, what are you doing?" I asked incredulously.

"It's just to make a mockery of their god," he assured me. "To show that even unmanifest, That Which Hungers is more powerful."

"Please, no," I begged, exhausted beyond belief. "Ash, let's just go."

In response, he started to inscribe the first line.

Faith's voice broke through his concentration. "Ash! We're failed demonic cultists. We need to maintain our role," she reminded him. When he hesitated, she began to declaim loudly so all our neighbors could hear: "We have failed as cultists! We may have won the battle, but it was but a pyrrhic victory! Our summoning was interrupted and everything we have worked for has been dissolved! Our hopes, our dreams are in ruins!"

"Oy! Keep it down, you crazy cultists!" Glass smashed as an irate neighbor hurled a bottle at the side of the mansion.

Faith grinned. About to continue her monologue, she exclaimed all of a sudden, "Oh no, we forgot our electroplasmic light show! I was really looking forward to it too. It would have been sooooo impressive." For a moment she looked utterly crushed. Then she shrugged and flipped the switch. "Might as well enjoy it now."

Brilliant blue swirls flowed down the sides of the altar and raced up the wall behind it, pooling in the fake sigils until they danced with unholy light. Slowly, a single spot of blue in the center of the wall began to expand, sucking in electroplasm and growing faster and faster. At once, all the sigils went out as if extinguished, and on the darkened wall, a ravenous mouth gaped open, filled with rows upon rows of jagged teeth.

"Mmmmmmm," sighed Faith, satisfied. "That _was _impressive. We'll have to remember to trigger it next time." Then she howled out the nearest window, "Curses! Our plots have been foiled! Fellow faithful cultists, gather all the ritual possessions and flee! We have been discovered! It is no longer safe here!"

Hopping onto the altar, she perched on the edge and surveyed all the unconscious Unbroken Sun followers. With a wink, she made a little shooing motion at Ash and me.

"Run along now, while I make sure my faithful ghosts disperse without eating anyone."

For a change, it was Faith we abandoned at the crime scene.


	42. Faith's Helpful Flowchart

"Well, that was exciting," Ash remarked over breakfast, sounding not the slightest bit excited. "So, Faith, why don't you tell us about this Church ritual of yours?"

What did you know? For all his zeal, he _didn't_ understand the Ascension Day ritual any more than I did. After we went to all the trouble of impersonating a demonic cult, kidnapping a hapless student, faking a blood sacrifice, and then knocking out most of a forgotten god cult in order to rip motes out of its adept – _after_ all of that was when Ash finally decided to inquire into details.

Faith yawned at him broadly, but for once it might have been due to actual fatigue. She'd stayed out so late that I'd been sound asleep by the time she returned, and there were very faint dark circles under her eyes. Recalling what my archivist had revealed about her age, I studied her face for evidence of cosmetics but saw nothing but smooth, young skin. Her lips curved up in a lazy smile under my scrutiny, and she answered Ash's question with a caricature of a yawn. "Ooooooh, you see, the Church of the Ecstasy of the Flesh has this ritual to turn people into demons."

All questions about Faith's true age vaporized. "_What_?" I yelped. "You can't do that!"

"_What_?" Ash echoed. "Why would they want to do that?"

In response, Faith just yawned again, suggesting that ennui infected the entire Church hierarchy.

"Hypocrites!" he fumed.

"That can't be possible!" I cried.

Stretching luxuriously, Faith drawled, "Sure it can. It's _easy_. I'm not talking about the Skovlander I-stood-in-the-rain-too-long-and-now-my-liver-has-turned-into-a-tentacle kind of demons." Her voice turned into a pathetic plea for sympathy halfway through that sentence, then shifted into horrified shock: "Or the Iruvian I-thought-it-was-a-good-idea-to-carry-around-a-shard-of-a-Demon-Prince-and-oh-my-gods-now-I've-been-corrupted!-How-could-that-have-happened?! type of demons." From there, her tone modulated into querulousness: "Or even the Tycherosi my-great-great-grandmother-slept-with-a-demon-_once_-and-now-I-suffer-from-permanent-skin-discoloration variety of demons."

"I'm _hardly_ suffering," objected Ash with some amount of genuine annoyance.

As for me, I clenched the rickety armrests of my chair and forced myself not to react.

She pretended not to hear him. "No," she went on smoothly, "_I'm_ talking about the actual, literal, take-a-person-and-tear-out-their-soul-and-then-put-in-demon-essence-so-they're-a-demon-in-a-human-body sort of demons. Here, I can explain better with a diagram. Give me one minute!"

She bounded out of the common room and into her compartment. Loud rummaging and clattering filled the stunned silence.

"Ash!" Regaining my wits, I poked his arm over and over until he slowly turned towards me. "Ash Ash Ash! Is she telling the truth?"

Dazed, he replied, "Yes. Yes, she is…. She might be slightly exaggerating…but it's true."

I fled U'Duasha and the Demon Princes for a city that _celebrated_ the conversion of humans into hybrid monstrosities?

Faith reappeared in the doorway, staggering under the weight of a giant blackboard and a box of colored chalks. Ash was still too shocked to help her, and I felt no inclination to do so.

"Why on earth would the Church seek to create demons?" he demanded with a ferocious scowl. "Not that demons are bad _per se_, of course – " I made a little noise of dissent that he ignored – "but it doesn't seem like the Church."

"_Doesn't_ it? Then let me explain it to you!" Dropping the blackboard on the table with a loud crash, Faith pulled out a piece of pink chalk and started scribbling a googly-eyed stick figure on the left-hand side. "You see, here we have the idiotic victim – oh, sorry, I meant the high-ranking clergyman."

"Are you claiming that they plan to take a high-ranking clergyman and put a demon in him?" I asked incredulously, glancing at Ash for confirmation.

His attention was entirely fixed on the blackboard.

Faith reprimanded me, "Shh! Busy drawing."

Chalk squeaked, and an arrow shot out of the stick figure and diagonally upward into a box labeled "Refinement."

"You take the clergyman, remove anything vaguely soul-like, and extract all his memories and personality. Then you put those purified bits back into him."

She drew two arrows leading from "Refinement" back to the stick figure. She wrote "Memories" above one and "Personality" below the other. After contemplating her artwork for a minute, she added a question mark after the latter.

"No, that's not quite right. High-ranking clergymen don't have personalities. They're boring all the time. All right. The rest of his unholy soul gets dissolved into electroplasmic energy, which probably powers lamps or something. Hey Isha, don't you think it's amazing that our streetlights are full of disintegrated clergymen?"

No, no, I really didn't. "Where do the motes come in?"

"Patience!" she scolded. "We have to go in order or it won't make sense!"

Moving to the right-hand side of the blackboard, she scrawled "Hollowing" in giant letters and boxed them. Then she drew a long arrow pointing to it and labeled that "The hopelessly foolish." With a shake of her head, she crossed it out and wrote "Faithful" instead.

"Not that they're full of _me_ or anything," she assured us with a giggle.

Doggedly, I stayed on track. "That's the girl we identified," I said. "Kallysta."

"Exactly!" Faith dragged the chalk along the blackboard with a spine-tingling screech. Now a long arrow led from "Hollowing" back to "Refinement." "Extra souls help with the memory and maybe personality distillation process!"

"How? Why?" demanded Ash.

"I _could_ explain, but it's all so very technical. Don't worry your pretty little discolored head about it."

"What happens to the victim afterwards?" I asked.

"The hopelessly devout?" Faith gave an uninterested shrug. "They get used for free manual labor, I suppose. They never complain. It's the best."

"Uhhhhhhh." There were so many things wrong with that scenario that I didn't even know where to start. Even the Gualim, Hollowed and bound to Demon Princes as they were, retained some vestige of consciousness.

"But why is it so important to use Tycherosi for this step?" Ash pressed. "We've seen that they were targeting Tycherosi."

"Patience!" Faith chided. "Young people these days! Always in a hurry!" Very slowly and deliberately, she filled in the bottom half of her diagram, moving back across the chalkboard towards the stick figure. "You see, because the Tycherosi are part demon, their souls have very special properties that make them ideal for binding demon essence to human bodies."

"Whaaaaaat?" I yelped.

"Exactly!" Faith beamed at me. "I knew you'd like that part!"

She scribbled a cartoon tentacle at the bottom, labeled it "Demon (dead?)," and drew an arrow pointing to a box called "Binding."

"You coat the demon essence in Tycherosi souls, like balls of mochi. It's delicious! Wait, that's not quite right. It's not really the _full_ Tycherosi souls – just the binding agent refined from them. It's tastier that way," she assured us, as if we needed convincing. "Or maybe it's more like an emulsifier than a coating? Like a demon _mousse_? Hmmmm…."

I was never going to look at mousse the same way ever again. (Not that I'd eaten it in years or was likely to in the near future, but still.)

"And now, we have 'bound' demon essence! It's the perfect soul replacement! You couldn't find anything better to complement a clergyman's memories and lack of personality!" Faith finished off the flowchart with a long arrow pointing back at the stick figure. "Ta da!" Dropping the piece of chalk, she doffed an imaginary top hat and took a bow like a circus ringmaster.

Ash and I gaped at the blackboard and then at each other.

"What the hell?" he snapped. "Is this to make their high-ranking clergy insanely powerful or something?"

"Nooo," said Faith, sounding annoyed at her prize pupil's slowness. "It's to replace their souls, obviously."

"But _why_?" I asked.

"Because the soul is the embodiment of sin, or something along those lines." Standing back, Faith scrutinized her diagram as if it were a painting in an art gallery. "Oh, no, that's still not quite right!" With a frown and a pout, she picked up the pink chalk again and started modifying her possibly-dead demon cartoon. She added a circular head with x's for eyes, contemplated it for a moment, and sketched a second tentacle. Then she wrote under it, "Totally not Setarra."

Setarra, Setarra, I'd heard that term before. Where? "What's a Setarra?" Was it a type of Akorosian demon?

"No, no, no, try to keep up, Isha," Faith complained. "I just wrote that it's _totally_ not Setarra. It's irrelevant!"

Where _had_ I heard it? I must be slipping if I'd forgotten a piece of intel and its source. "Yes, but – "

Slowly, as if he couldn't quite believe his own train of logic, Ash said, "The Church thinks that the soul is evil, so it's going to replace it with – "

I interrupted, revulsion in my voice, "A _demon_?"

"Yes. It's perfectly obvious to me," said Faith. "Isn't it obvious to you? Demons are not-souls; hence, they're better than souls."

"Even for the Church of Messed-Up Theology, this is ridiculous," proclaimed Ash.

"Amen!" I agreed fervently.

"Faith," he asked, "are you really saying that all the high-ranking members of the Church have demon souls?"

"Only those who have Ascended."

"So the top levels of the Church are all _demons_?" I repeated in disbelief. Having already answered the question to her own satisfaction, she ignored me. "Faith! Answer the question! And Ash, tell me if she telling the truth!"

Faith just pulled a chair up to the table, collapsed into it, and slumped over the blackboard. "I'm going back to sleep. Wake me if something interesting happens."

I barely refrained from smacking her on the back on the head.

"All right, so that's the Ascension Day ritual," Ash said determinedly, glowering at the diagram. "Where do the motes come in?"

"Oh, the motes," said Faith, as if she'd completely forgotten about such a trivial detail. Dumping out her chalks on the board, she took her time selecting the perfect yellow one. "This matches the color of the Unbroken Sun, doesn't it?" she inquired, holding it up for us to inspect.

"Yes," said Ash.

"No, no, it's not quite right. Maybe this one is closer." She dithered between the two shades of bright yellow and marginally-less-bright yellow while Ash and I fidgeted and grew ever more restless. When she'd tormented us enough, she started drawing little yellow stars on the right side, around "The Faithful" arrow. "See? That's where the motes go. We insert them into the adorable Tycherosi vic– I mean, girl. She gets Hollowed…." Faith added more stars to the "Hollowing" box. "The motes stay in her soul when it's converted into binding agent…." More stars appeared along the arrow pointing to the "Binding" box. "Then they get coated onto the demon essence…." She started adding stars to the box, hesitated, and drew dramatic zigzags around it instead. Finally, she finished off with more stars leading back to the stick figure and surrounding it. "Who knows what will happen when motes of the Unbroken Sun interact with demon essence? Maybe they'll destroy the ritual and everyone involved. Maybe they'll blow up the Sanctorium in an orgy of stolen souls and demonic essence!"

"What if they get neutralized when her soul is turned into binding agent? What if they don't do anything?" I felt obliged to ask.

"I can't imagine that would happen," Ash pointed out. "There's no reason for the Church to expect or take precautions against something like that."

"It does seem like the least likely option," Faith agreed. "Also, the most boring."

"What's _wrong_ with this Church?" I complained, still studying the flowchart. "What's wrong with the _Akorosi_?"

"Oh, Isha!" cried the only Akorosi in the room. "If you but gave up your life of crime and devoted yourself to academic pursuits, what a scholar you'd make! You dazzle me with your trenchant questions! You – " At my expression, she dissolved into a bout of giggles. When she could speak again, she informed us, "The Church does seem to be desperate. At least, lately they've been desperately gathering Tycherosi souls, for some reason."

In a cold, hard voice, Ash decreed, "Just another reason they all have to die."

"All the _Tycherosi_?" gasped Faith, absolutely horrified by his betrayal of his countrymen.

"No!"

I decided that it was my turn to haul this conversation back on track. "All right, all right, how are we going to do this?"

Pacing back and forth along the length of the common room, Ash proposed, "Perhaps we could _not_ make her last day of life hellish? Second-to-last day of life, that is. Her last day will presumably be demon infested." His mouth twisted on the last words, which was certainly a funny sentiment for someone who claimed that demons weren't evil, _per se._

"Ash." Faith rushed up to him and felt his forehead, fluttering like an anxious mother. "Ash, are you _okay_?"

He brushed her off impatiently. "Of course not! She's Tycherosi!"

The sudden revelation rocked Faith back on her heels. "Aaaaah, I see! You feel a sentimental connection to one of your fellow countrymen!"

Forgotten off to the side, I raised my voice. "Maybe we can invite her to tea and put the motes in her cup." I actually liked Ash's idea of giving poor Kallysta one pleasant day before she sacrificed herself to a state-sponsored demonic cult.

Faith tsked and shook her head, disappointed by evidence of Ash's and my compassion. "We don't want to make her life _too_ nice. She might decide not to be Hollowed after all."

That raised another concern. "After the whole Kender Morland business, are we sure she still wants to be Hollowed?" His flock – the portion of it in the bar who shredded him with their bare hands, anyway – seemed to be well and truly disillusioned with Church doctrine.

Ash, religious-fanatic-in-residence, betrayed no trace of anxiety on that score.

Faith was the one to reply with a careless shrug, "Probably. The faithful tend to be pretty…faithful."

Ash elaborated, "And she wouldn't have been picked if she weren't extremely so. Maybe we can invite her to the Sensorium, give her a good memory, and while she's enjoying it, attune the motes into her. How does that work?" Snatching the nearest lightning hook, he waved it wildly, sending electroplasmic arcs crackling through the air.

I hastily ducked behind a chair.

Totally at ease, Faith eyed me with amusement. "Ash, while you're flailing that around, can you please point it at Isha, as opposed to at me?"

He paid her no attention. One bolt of lightning seared an empty chair. A second bolt struck the one I was hiding behind mere seconds after I scrambled under the table.

"Seriously, Ash?" I protested from somewhere near Faith's skirts. "It's not that easy to find good chairs!" In fact, it had taken months of dumpster trawling to collect our mismatched set.

Switching off and leaning the lightning hook against the bar, Ash rolled his eyes. "We can buy more, Isha. We're _insanely_ wealthy. We could spend a coin and make this place look like a palace, but we're extremely stingy – as we should be. Anyway, I like the idea of taking Kallysta to the Sensorium."

Now that the excitement was over, Faith slid down in her chair as if drained of all energy. One of her pink slippers bumped me – on purpose, I thought – as I crawled back out. Through a wide yawn that distorted her words, she said, "I un-volunteer the Sensorium. We'll invite her to our railcar for a nice day of tea, and crumpets, and biscuits, and mochi, and mousse…."

"We don't want her _here_," I objected. Even if Kallysta were going to be Hollowed the very next day, what if she let slip something during the process? Right now the Church had no reason to ransack the Old Rail Yard for heretics, and I preferred to keep it that way. "Take her to a teahouse. Brightstone is probably too fancy, but somewhere in Silkshore would work."

"My, my, Isha, don't _you_ have expensive tastes," murmured Faith, before suggesting, "Why don't we take her to meet Nyryx? After all, we want to let her live her last day in the ecstasy of the flesh to appropriately satisfy her beliefs, and we want to perform this ritual somewhere private, far from the gaze of disapproving observers."

"And you think we can do that in the middle of _Catcrawl Alley_?" I asked sarcastically. The dockers and sailors might be drunk, but they weren't _that_ drunk.

"Nyryx has a room," Faith replied. Then she grinned. "In Catcrawl Alley."

Our discussion of Nyryx reminded Ash of something. "That clergyman she wanted us to kill – Preceptor Dunvil."

"You mean the head of the Church in Doskvol?" asked Faith sweetly.

"Yes. Do you think _he's_ a demon too?"

"He must be, right?" I pointed out. "If all the high-ranking members are demons?"

Since I'd already answered for her, Faith didn't bother.

Reading her body language, Ash mused, "If it were any other institution, I'd laud its ruthless pursuit of power – but it's not. It's the _Church_." His face hardening, he said savagely, "If _I_ were going to sacrifice someone, I'd at least give her some happiness first. I _hate_ the Church!"

I absolutely agreed. I didn't know which was worse: the Demon Princes of U'Duasha, who openly ruled Iruvia through the Houses, or the demonic clergymen of Doskvol, who bedazzled the masses with drug-fueled orgies. "We have to destroy the Church."

"Isha!" exclaimed Ash in shock.

Faith leaped out of her chair and threw her arms around me. "You say the sweetest things!"

For once, I didn't fight free. "So do we have a plan?"


	43. Kallysta's Last Day

Disguised as Charhallow residents and armed with Faith's pointers on how to act like Churchgoers, Ash and I approached Kallysta in the alley she called home. While she waited for the sacrament of Hollowing to end all her fleshly woes, she huddled in rags beside a large barrel that semi-functioned as a windbreak. At the sound of boots on cobblestone, she glanced up, confused.

"Can I help you?" she asked politely – and a trifle nervously, as if she feared that we planned to shoo her away.

Ash held out a hand and explained, "I saw you at Church the other day. I'm Rolan."

"Kallysta." With his aid, she rose and shook out her coarse, torn skirt as best she could. Although I scanned her quickly, I couldn't identify her demon tell.

As if we'd run into her in a church vestibule after a sermon, Ash went on, "We understand that partaking in the Church's ideals can be expensive and is also best shared with others, so we were hoping that you'd join us."

Glancing between the two of us, Kallysta registered our casual stance and the total ease we displayed in a dark alley in a poverty-stricken neighborhood with a complete stranger who might or might not stab us for our purses. With that attitude, we couldn't be anything but madmen or blades. Drawing the appropriate conclusion (maybe), she gaped in awe.

Ash pretended not to notice any of that. "Since we're new to the area, we were hoping that you knew where to – "

"The pub's closed," she blurted out, then blushed at the interruption. She swallowed, dropped her gaze, and added softly, "There was an incident."

That was certainly one way of putting it.

Ash played along smoothly. "That's a shame. Perhaps we could head to a nicer part of town then."

The poor girl's eyes opened wide. "I – I can't afford…."

"Don't worry, it's on us," he assured her, and her eyes practically dropped out of their sockets. "You're Tycherosi, I'm Tycherosi," he said, as if being a fellow countryman from a land full of avaricious part-demon merchants explained the sudden largess. "Lately, I've been studying the writings of the Immortal Emperor, and there were some parts I wasn't sure how to interpret."

"Yeah, I can tell you about Church teachings…."  
"That would be most helpful! This is my friend Tick Tock, by the way." He jerked his head at me, and I smiled at Kallysta in my friendliest manner.

"Pleased to meet'cha," she responded automatically.

"The pleasure is all mine," I replied with a good deal less sincerity.

Holding out an arm like the perfect gentleman, Ash waited until she tentatively rested her dirty fingertips on it and then escorted her out of the alley. I fell in on his other side (to avoid crowding her, of course), and asked, "Kallysta, can you tell us more about the Second Epistle to Akorosians?"

Faith had assured us in her own inimitable way that this Epistle was one of the foundational texts of the Church and that any devotee deserving of the title would have pored over every last character and punctuation mark, extracting strata after strata of meaning that the Immortal Emperor might or might not have intended. "Why, what do you mean you two haven't read it? It's required reading for educated and civilized citizens of the Imperium!" she'd cried. "Even _Isha_ keeps a copy in her room! Oh, wait, no, she doesn't. She's _Iruvian_." After that, Ash and I had spent a tedious afternoon at the bookseller's in Charterhall, skimming religious texts and cramming as much basic theology as we could.

Now Ash flattered Kallysta with perfect honesty, "_You're _the expert on Church teachings here."

"Well," she replied modestly, "I'm just a parishioner, really, but it really has been a great comfort in my life…." Obligingly, she launched into a lecture on the doctrines of the ecstasy of the flesh and the abomination of the soul.

"Oh, that's fascinating! Can you tell me more about…?" He gently led her to prattle on about whatever topic caught her fancy.

Beforehand, Ash and I had already debated where to take Kallysta to give her the best day of her nasty, brutish, and soon-to-be-short life. We had to strike the perfect balance between fulfilling her fantasies and not overwhelming her with luxury. I'd suggested Silkshore, with its distinctive lantern-decked streets and artwork on every surface that stood (or lay) still long enough to be painted. Ash, however, had held out for Coalridge.

"_Coalridge_?" I'd asked incredulously. "You think _Coalridge_ is nice?"

To which he'd replied, "To _her_, yes."

He'd won that fight.

* * *

As Ash, Kallysta, and I strolled through Charhallow on our way to Coalridge's lone teahouse, I only half-listened to her fervent praise of the Church. Instead, I scanned our surroundings and noted that the neighborhood around The Old Rasp seemed a lot more subdued than it had been on the night of Kender Morland's demise. As Kallysta had already warned us, the pub itself was dark and empty. A large, handwritten sign on the door blared "CRIME SCENE DO NOT ENTER" in misshapen letters. Passersby kept their heads down, carefully avoided looking at the pub or one another, and scuttled along as if they were terrified that a Bluecoat would haul them to the station for advanced interrogation.

I snapped back to attention when Kallysta shifted away from her ramblings about the weekly sermons that formed her main escape from relentless poverty. "The Church genuinely cares about _all _of its members, rich and poor alike," she explained earnestly. "Just a _day_ after our curate…died, they sent us a new curate to tend to our fleshly bodies. Eridan Mayvin. He's passionate and charismatic and waaaaay too important to be down _here_, but that just shows how good-hearted he is, to take a post in Charhallow because we need him."

Either that, or the Church was desperate to get its hands and lightning hooks on _her_.

"Is this Eridan Mayvin Tycherosi?" Ash asked, feigning idle curiosity.

"Oh, no, no, he's Akorosi. Most of our curates are. None of us are important enough to be high up in the Church," she said shyly.

"Give yourself time!" Ash exhorted her. "I'm sure the Church will recognize the great things you've done."

His careful set-up worked. "Oh, well, they already have!" Kallysta declared, then glanced away as if she were too modest to brag.

"How exciting!" he encouraged. "How have they rewarded you?"

"I'm going to the Sanctorium," she answered hesitantly, blinking as if she couldn't quite believe the honor. "To give up my ghost."

"Really? Then we're privileged to be with you!"

"Oh, no no no," she hastily demurred.

"No, no, this is a great day! We have to celebrate!"

At the dilapidated Hidden Treasures Teahouse (treasures hidden so well they might as well have been lost in the Cataclysm), we commandeered the nicest table (i.e., the one whose tablecloth possibly almost looked white) by a window with a semi-decent view of the canal. Since Kallysta was too overwhelmed by the décor and menu, we started off with a tea sampler, then ordered more of her favorite types. While the lights of Nightmarket glinted off the black water, she confided in us all her secret, girlish dreams of elegant ballgowns and glamorous dinner parties. (Recalling Sigmund's frustration with vacuous dinner partners, I didn't think she was missing much, but I also didn't disabuse her of her fantasies.)

After our extremely fancy high tea, we took Kallysta to what passed for Coalridge's shopping district, which was really a jumble of shops on the edge of the Old Rail Yard. Their proprietors had clung on stubbornly when Gaddoc Rail Station opened across the canal and vacuumed up their middle- and upper-class customers, and instead pivoted to cater to factory workers and their families. When Kallysta paused in front of Ye Olde General Store to admire a sturdy hat, Ash immediately tugged her inside to buy it for her. Mostly, however, she was excited about food – something I could empathize with – so we bought all sorts of pastries and meat skewers and candied mushrooms and ate our way from one street vendor to the next. The poor girl was going to have the worst stomachache of her life.

Finally, as dusk flickered on the horizon, Ash announced, "We need to celebrate properly! Let's go get drunk!"

And so it was that we piled into The Moon Sisters and plied her with the best ale and wine and whiskey she'd ever seen. Perhaps as an indication of his mental state, Ash actually got drunk with her, but I only pretended to. As evening advanced into night and the moon trailed its pale sisters across the sky, Kallysta tipsily suggested venturing into the unimaginably swanky Docks. Leaning towards us and nearly knocking over her wineglass, she giggled, "I heard about a place called Catcrawl Alley. They say you can find en– " she hiccupped – "en-ter-tain-ment there."

"An eg-shellent idea!" cheered Ash, raising his ale mug in a sloppy toast. "To the Docks!"

Somehow, I managed to steer both of them across all of Coalridge, Charhallow, _and_ Crow's Foot without getting mugged. (Bazso was going raise his eyebrows when his runners reported what I was up to.) We got stalled by Captain Rye's Menagerie, where Kallysta and Ash goggled, pointed, and laughed uproariously at the crazy, crazy critters while I cast "help me!" looks in the direction of Catcrawl Alley. At last, a rather amused Nyryx took matters into her own hands and "solicited" us. She took charge of a willing and excited Kallysta and directed Ash and me further down the alley to her "colleague," who turned out to be an even more amused-looking Faith. (Playing prostitute must have been a new experience for her.) The three of us lounged about the alley until Nyryx cracked her door open and waved us over.

"She's very, very asleep," she told Faith in a low voice.

"Thank you, dear!"

Followed closely by Ash and me, Faith barged into Nyryx's workplace. Scraps of red gauze hung dispiritedly from rusty nails driven into cracked once-white paint, and a rickety metal bed practically filled the room, leaving barely enough floorspace for the four of us. A naked Kallysta was slumbering soundly on her front. For a moment, pity softened Faith's features, but then she plastered a grin across her face and reached for her lightning hook. With a steady hand, she sketched runes across Kallysta's back that glowed with a soft blue light, reminiscent of Ash's life-essence-extraction ritual. Ash handed her the bottle of golden motes, and she unscrewed the lid and tipped it over the runes.

The motes bunched up at the far end of the bottle and buzzed angrily. The Unbroken Sun did _not_ want to enter a part-demon soul.

"Should I help?" Ash offered, quietly to avoid waking Kallysta.

Faith's voice was flippant but just as soft. "If you wish."

With his assistance, she finally managed to shake the motes out of the bottle. Winking in and out of existence, the little sparkles drifted downward, landed gently on the runes, and melted into them. All of the light, blue and gold alike, sank into Kallysta's back, leaving no traces on her skin. The girl stirred and mumbled sleepily but didn't wake.

Leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, Nyryx viewed the entire process with dead-eyed, dispassionate pity.

"Is it done?" I whispered.

"Not quite." Opening her satchel, Faith removed a handful of pink silk ribbons, which she proceeded to tie in Kallysta's hair. "There," she proclaimed. "_Now_ it's done. I'll see you at home." With a quick kiss on Nyryx's cheek, she skipped out of the room.

After that, neither Ash nor I felt like talking. In silence, we disarranged our clothing and hair until Nyryx nodded her approval, and went back into the alley to wait. At last, Kallysta woke on her own and stumbled out, bleary but content. The three of us caught a cab back to Charhollow – another new and exciting experience for her – where Ash and I booked a private room in a boardinghouse for her – even more exciting! – then accepted her slurred but sincere thanks and tiptoed back onto the street.

"She's a nice girl," Ash mumbled at last. "It's a shame that she wanted to give up her soul this way."

"It's a waste, is what it is," I said emphatically.

"It was going to be wasted anyways," he snapped, "until the Church is stopped." He cast about for a sufficiently strong expression of disgust, but in his anger, all he could come up with was: "I _hate_ them. I can't believe they don't do this for Hollowees already."

To be fair to the Church, one final, wild, pre-Hollowing party seemed right up its alley, so to speak. We might very well have whisked Kallysta out from under their alcohol- and drug-addled noses. "How do you know they don't?"

"Then where are they?" he demanded. "_We_ were the ones treating her on her last day."

He made a fair point.

* * *

The next afternoon, Charhallow's passionate, charismatic, and way-too-important curate, Eridan Mayvin, escorted Kallysta to the Sanctorium.

* * *

The morning after _that_, Faith rose early, donned her sixth-day best, and left the railcar without a word to anyone.

I tailed her to Unity Park in Brightstone, where she sat down demurely on the edge of the fountain. Across the street rose the curves and spirals of the Sanctorium, half-hidden behind breathtakingly beautiful – and also breathtakingly toxic – radiant energy trees. I guessed that she'd positioned herself directly above the catacombs where the demonic ritual would occur, and that she was attuning to the ghost field to monitor it, but I also knew that asking her would produce no useful information _plus_ a great deal of annoyance.

For about an hour, she gazed serenely at the giant statue that commemorated Unity War heroes (who, pointedly, didn't include Ronia Helker). Then she rose unhurriedly and strolled out of the park.

Hoping for clues about what had happened in the catacombs, I followed.

* * *

Faith went first to the Sensorium, where she stayed for a few hours while I waited patiently in Jayan Park. My archivist was practically hyperventilating when he reported on _that_ visit later.

"She's messing with the Church!" he hissed. "She – she's _messing with the Church_! And Madame Keitel is in on it!"

"Why do you say that?" I inquired neutrally.

"Because she skipped into the Sensorium, and she pulled Madame Keitel into a back room, and she told her – told Madame Keitel, I mean – that the Church is increasing the rate of Ascensions! And Madame Keitel said that can't be good and asked by how much. And Mistress Karstas said that there are at least three now within the Church itself – whatever that means – but that they tried and failed this morning."

So our plan did work. But remembering Kallysta's pathetic joy at shopping in Coalridge and riding in a cab, I felt no triumph.

"Madame Keitel was very surprised, and – and Mistress Karstas just gave her the most smug and satisfied _smirk_. Madame Keitel said that's probably for the best and asked if they caught her. She said no. Then Madame Keitel said that she's starting to worry about Mistress Karstas' 'cohesion'."

That puzzled me. "Cohesion? What does cohesion mean in this context?"

The archivist cringed like a guilty schoolboy and fidgeted with his bowler hat. "I'm not sure, miss," he muttered without meeting my eyes. "I'm not involved in the memory extraction process. But I _think_ it somehow damages the soul if it's performed too often…."

"Go on."

"Madame Keitel said, 'If it gets worse, we'll need to do something.' And then Mistress Karstas ran away."

"She ran away?" That sounded extremely unlike Faith.

"Weeeell, she nodded and smiled and sidled out the door as if she _wanted_ to run away…?"

Good enough. Faith didn't do very well with personal conversations. "So what memory did she experience this time? _Did_ she experience a memory this time?"

The archivist gulped. "She asked for memories from people who were later Hollowed! She was curious about the hopelessness and despair that would lead to such a decision! And Madame Keitel raised an eyebrow and said in this dry voice, 'You know, I got some just for you'."

That did sound like Madame Keitel.

* * *

Having sampled of the city's despair and hopelessness, Faith next proceeded to Catcrawl Alley, where she picked up our eight coin from Nyryx and inquired if she knew someone called Salia. (Crouched behind a water tank, I scowled. I knew I'd heard that name before – but where?)

"Of course I know Salia," replied Nyryx in her blunt way. "Why? Do you need to talk to her?"

"She's selling something to a friend of mine," Faith explained with surprising directness. "I want to audit the veracity."

(Aha. The Kinclaith maid had overheard Irimina confessing to Faith that a certain Salia would need to be repaid for helping her achieve immortality.)

"Any information Salia sells is very reliable," Nyryx replied immediately.

Still with that unnerving lack of alliteration, Faith asked, "Does she just broker information deals? Or does she specialize in something?"

"She _is_ an information broker," pointed out Nyryx as if that should be common knowledge. "That _is_ her job. Is your friend in trouble?"

I could hear the thoughtfulness in Faith's voice. "No more so than usual…." Then, as if she'd just fit the last pieces together, she asked abruptly, "Is Salia one of the Reconciled?"

Nyryx said only, "Yes."

"Well, that answers all my questions! Thank you, dear!"

I peeked out just in time to watch Faith stand on tiptoe, peck Nyryx on the cheek, and traipse out the other end of the alley. I might have followed, but I had a class to teach.

Provided Mylera let me back into the sword academy, that was.


	44. Awkward Conversations

"Glass, I'm afraid I have orders not to let you in until further notice."

As soon as I passed through the gates of the Red Sash Sword Academy, Mylera's foot soldiers dashed inside to report, and it was their second-in-command, Xayah, who greeted me at the door. Although she sounded slightly apologetic (we usually got along quite well), her gaze was firm, and in the cold wind, her sleeves rippled over daggers strapped to her forearms.

She also very solidly occupied the center of the top step, the way Irimina's butler Rutherford did when he declined entry to tradesmen and beggars.

Stopping at the foot of the stairs, I propped one boot on the bottom step, shifted my weight onto my left leg so my sword hilt flashed – a reminder that I was almost as good a fencer as she – and affected a relaxed pose. "Orders from Mylera?" I drawled, playing for time.

"Of course," Xayah replied calmly, knowing perfectly well that _I_ knew perfectly well that no Red Sash lieutenant would ban me on her own initiative. Like all her Ankhayat leviathan-hunter-captain kin, Mylera brooked no dissent from her underlings, even as she accepted that the greater part of wisdom was humility. (That bizarre mix of military imperiousness and scholarly restraint made Ankhayat the hardest House for any young Anixis to impersonate properly.)

Without speaking, Xayah stared steadily at me and waited for me to remove myself. Well, if she planned to play butler, then it was time to remind her that _I_ was high Iruvian nobility – which _her_ family had served as stewards and legal counsel for generations. (In fact, one of her great-uncles terrorized the Anixis estate, silently and efficiently executing the Patriarch's will.)

With a haughty lift of my chin, I declared in upper-class Hadrathi, "Please inform Mylera Klev that if she wishes to ban me from the premises, she needs to release me from our contract first. I am legally obligated to teach this class."

Generations of servitude had left their mark. With a sigh, Xayah replied reflexively, "Please wait here. I'll see what she says."

"Thank you."

In her absence, I advanced onto the top step and leaned casually against one of the marble columns. Normally, I would have felt guilty about pulling rank – after wrangling that first meeting with Mylera two years ago, I'd dropped the aristocratic accent in favor of street Hadrathi – but right now I was desperate. I could not make amends to someone who refused to see me.

Mylera's familiar footsteps heralded her arrival after roughly the length of time it took for Xayah to hurry upstairs and report, and then for both of them to proceed downstairs at Mylera's normal walking speed.

An Anixis would have kept me waiting.

An Ankhayat disdained mental games.

This particular Ankhayat leaned against the doorjamb, folded her arms across her chest, and skewered me with a long, hard look. "I thought I told you to get out." Her voice was hostile and harbored no hesitation to remove me from her front step, personally and by force if necessary. All around the courtyard, her people stood to attention, hands on hilts and sashes.

But while Mylera might have been an Ankhayat, I was an Anixis.

Taking one quick step forward (a few Red Sashes started in alarm, then subsided at her signal), I lifted a hand to my heart, bowed my head – and plunged into the deep obeisance that members of one House made to the Patriarch of another.

Gasps rose around the courtyard as I held the pose, waiting for her to speak first.

"I have no interest in being involved in any Anixis plots, Glass," came her icy voice.

When I glanced up, I noted that my opening move had elicited no more than one raised eyebrow. (Xayah's eyes, on the other hand, were practically bulging out of her head.)

"Glass, I left all of that behind when I left Iruvia. I don't know what your House is trying to accomplish in Crow's Foot, but I and my Red Sashes want _no_ part of it. _None_ whatsoever." With a sharp, emphatic motion, Mylera gestured for me to drop the act and get up immediately.

I rose slowly and gracefully, keeping my head bowed to hide my exasperation. For the life of me, I could not fathom why she persisted in believing that my House sanctioned any of my actions. Still, I kept my tone respectful as I replied, "And I can understand that." Keeping my right hand over my heart, I enunciated, "I swear to you that House Anixis is not interested in anything going on in Crow's Foot."

At all. In fact, nothing would please the aspect of the House demon bound inside my sword more than if I simply left the Crow's Foot gangs to their own devices.

Still unconvinced, Mylera glowered at me. "Then what are you doing here?"

On the way over, I'd already decided to tell her the truth about myself, but I'd counted on confessing in the privacy of her office, out of earshot of all her foot soldiers, runners, and students – many of whose families cherished uncomfortably close ties to the Iruvian Consulate.

"Must we have this conversation out here?" I waved my hand around the courtyard, encompassing all the thugs who were practically toppling forward in an effort to eavesdrop. Practice swords in hand, some of the students were peeking out from behind Xayah, craning their necks for a better view.

Mylera glanced with disinterest at her people, who immediately struck up animated conversations about nothing at all. "Yes," she snapped. "I think we should have it right here. Go on."

"Would _you_ be willing to have a conversation about why you left Iruvia out here?"

Her eyelids flickered once in acknowledgement, but her tone did not soften. "However, Glass, in this situation, you are begging me for something that I am extremely unwilling to give – because _I don't trust you_. So I am quite happy to have this conversation out here, surrounded by all the people I _do_ trust."

Except that her relationship with the Iruvian Consulate wasn't any better than mine. Whatever internal politics had driven Mylera out of U'Duasha continued to ensure that Elstera kept a close eye on her on behalf of House Ankhayat (and probably Anixis too, although that was nothing personal).

"In that case," I suggested, "I propose that we have this discussion in front of all your trusted lieutenants, but not anyone who might report to Elstera Avrathi."

For a moment, she stiffened. Then she sighed. Without taking her eyes off my face, she ordered, "Xayah, go gather the other instructors. We're going to the Cat."

The Cat and Candle was their equivalent of the Leaky Bucket – technically neutral ground for all gangs, but in practice a second home for the Red Sashes. (Occasionally, some of the newer and dumber Lampblacks would dare each other to order a beer at the Cat, and whereas nothing ever _happened_ to them, none of them tried it twice.) Followed by Xayah and the other swordmasters, Mylera swept into the pub as if she officially owned it, snapped "Get out" at the handful of drinkers nursing their tankards, and commandeered a long table in the center of the room. While the barkeep scuttled into the kitchen, the Red Sash lieutenants, six in all, arrayed themselves on the bench to either side of their leader, with Xayah positioned on her right. I sat down smoothly across from Mylera, faintly amused that I got a great deal more space.

Planting her elbows on the stained wood, the head of the Red Sashes steepled her fingers and gave me another long, hard look. "Go on," she ordered at last.

Selecting my words carefully – and monitoring her lieutenants out of the corner of my eye in case any of them were Consulate spies – I began, "Remember how you knew from the start that I was descended from House Anixis? But you made certain assumptions regarding the…legitimacy of any claims I might make on the House?"

The corners of her mouth turned down. "Yes," she said sourly. "That was foolish of me."

Diplomatically, I offered, "Well, I wouldn't call it that…." Then I hesitated, biting my lip and bracing myself to speak the name I hadn't claimed in two long years. It was surprisingly hard to force out the words: "My name is Signy Anixis."

Murmurs rose from Xayah and the other lieutenants. The ones born in U'Duasha twitched, as if engrained instinct urged them to jump up and perform the requisite obeisance.

Holding Mylera's gaze, I said softly, "I ran away two years ago."

Slowly, she nodded. "I'd heard about this."

"I think most of Iruvia has by now," I said in a rueful tone, making a shameless play for sympathy.

Mylera was silent for a very long moment, while she mentally catalogued and reinterpreted all of our interactions. When she spoke again, I could tell that this time she would actually listen to what I had to say. "So then – _why_?" She leaned forward, and a stream of questions tumbled out. "What are you doing in _Crow's Foot_? Why are you involved with us and the _Lampblacks_? Where do your loyalties really lie? Because that is probably the most pertinent question."

Well, only if you weren't an Anixis. "To answer your first question: by accident."

"By _accident_," she repeated flatly. (Beside her, Xayah sighed and rolled her eyes very slightly.) "You _accidentally_ inserted yourself as a double agent in our gang war. That is literally the most Anixis thing I've heard in my entire life."

Well, yes. Hadn't I just told her I was an Anixis – and an Anixis whose brother stood to inherit the House, no less? In spite of myself, a note of sarcasm slipped out. "Then you should probably realize that if an entire family tells you that this sort of thing keeps happening to them, it's the sort of thing that keeps happening to them."

The Ankhayat did not look impressed.

"Look," I explained in a more appeasing tone, "I got off the train, I took a wrong turn, I wandered into Crow's Foot without knowing _anything_ about this district, and unfortunately I got picked up by Pickett as a Red Sash spy."

"Okay." Mylera and her lieutenants seemed more than ready to believe that of the Lampblack second-in-command.

"Suffice to say that after a certain amount of…misunderstanding – " very, very painful misunderstanding – "Bazso figured out that I was not actually a Red Sash and hired me to spy on you."

"I see."

"At which point, I came to you and told you exactly what he said – and you hired me to spy on _him_." I had to suppress a smile at the irony. When you thought about it, mine really _was_ a uniquely Anixis situation. Sigmund would roar with laughter if I ever regaled him with my escapades (if he didn't already know, that was).

Mylera, on the other hand, looked entirely unamused. In fact, I'd seen rocks in the deathlands that looked less unamused. "That still doesn't answer my question: Do your loyalties lie with your countrymen – or do they lie with your lover?" When I opened my mouth to counter that she couldn't very well complain about my relationship with Bazso when _she_ was the one who'd sent me to seduce him, she cut me off. "Oh, yes. I've been doing my own research."

And, apparently, drawn her own conclusions regarding the sincerity of aforementioned seduction.

Uncertain just how much she knew, I temporized, "It's complicated."

Sharply, she said, "It needs to _not_ be complicated."

"I'm an Anixis," I pointed out, the name still sounding odd on my tongue. "Everything is complicated for us."

Infuriated by my recalcitrance, Mylera actually slammed a hand on the table and half-rose. "And _I'm_ an Ankhayat – or was – and we prefer things to be clear!"

Gods save me from blockheaded military types who couldn't bend their angular little brains around the concept of subtlety. If we ever put House Ankhayat in charge of espionage, their Patriarch would march straight into the Immortal Emperor's throne room and demand what the Imperial fleet was doing in Bright Harbor. (A tactic that, admittedly, might prove useful under very specific and limited circumstances – but only if we were planning to replace Ankhayat leadership anyway.)

"Mylera," I murmured, "did you ever wonder _why_ I fled U'Duasha?"  
The question snapped her out of her rage. Reigning in her temper, she sat back down in a carefully controlled motion and stared at me steadily. "I presume you got tired of all the bloodshed." A tiny hint of compassion seeped into her voice. "That's why most of the Anixises leave."

The unexpected sympathy nearly broke me. Even though I'd never been as close to her as I was to Bazso, Mylera had always understood me so much better. When I was with her, I didn't need to explain anything. She already knew.

Leaning across the table, I said with a great deal more emotion than I'd planned to show, "My brother and I grew up _swearing_ that we would change things. And when he was named heir, I thought we had an actual chance." Bitterness filled my voice, but that was all right, because Mylera would understand that too. "But he changed. And so I came here to figure out what to do. And when I saw the gangs of Crow's Foot at each other's throats, just like the branches of my own House, I thought, 'What better practice for fixing my family, than to fix Crow's Foot first?'"

For a moment, I saw before me not a low-class Doskvolian tavern, but the Great Hall of the Anixis estate, ablaze with electroplasmic chandeliers, with the Patriarch in the center of the dais and Sigmund by his side, and Ixis whispering insidious lies into both of their minds.

"We're _practice_?" Mylera's exclamation shattered the vision and wrenched me back to Doskvol. A few feet in front of me sat my ex-friend, furious and offended and hurt all at the same time.

And that was what I got for being honest. No wonder the House discouraged it.

"You know what I meant," I sighed.

"Hmmm." She must have been in a merciful mood, because she opted to let it slide. For now. "I suppose a great many things make more sense now," she mused before her voice sharpened again. "Is there really a Hive threat?"

"Yes," I answered immediately. Taking a gamble in a bid to win back her trust, I confided, "We have someone in the Hive."

"The _Lampblacks_ do?" she asked, startled.

"No."

"Oh, your other crew – _them_." She processed that and seemed to find it a lot more plausible for a tiny crew consisting of three assassins in a broken-down railcar to plant an informant inside a massive, wealthy, powerful, Imperium-wide criminal organization – than Bazso and his Lampblacks. "Well, that's gutsy," she conceded grudgingly. Her mask cracking slightly, she addressed me as if we were alone in her office, chatting over an afternoon cup of coffee. "Look, Glass, I don't know how I can ever trust you again. I realize that we are not as lofty as one of the great noble Houses of Iruvia, but this gang _means_ something to me. We've _built_ something. And I need people to be committed to it." She stopped, and in her eyes I read the question that she wanted to ask but didn't dare voice, because it would make her look weak and House Ankhayat abhorred weakness: _Do you even _care_?_

I answered it as gently and as honestly as I knew how. "Look, Mylera, I care about you as a friend."

Her eyebrows rose very slightly at that.

I looked around at her lieutenants. "I care about the Red Sashes as a gang."

Xayah regarded me impassively.

I returned my gaze to Mylera. "But if you're asking if my first and only loyalty goes to the Red Sashes, then the answer is no. I've told you my priorities."

At that, Mylera heaved a gusty sigh. "No, I understand…." She frowned at her steepled fingers as if the answers might be branded into her skin. "All right. All right. I get it. I do. And I suppose you've given me a lot of good information over the past two years – at least, I _assume_ it was good information – not to mention a lot of timely warnings." Beside her, Xayah nodded emphatically. One of my desperate last-minute warnings had saved her from a Lampblack ambush. "I will let you continue your contract, Glass – Signy," she proclaimed.

I opened my mouth – whether to thank her or protest at the use of my real name I wasn't sure – but she held up a finger.

"But you _cannot_ provide any more information about the Red Sashes to Bazso. That needs to stop."

Releasing a deep breath, I met her eyes. "Agreed."

"All right then." Rising, she extended a hand across the table.

Standing up too, I shook it.

* * *

In a much more cordial mood, Mylera, her lieutenants, and I returned to the sword academy, where we found our students milling about the foyer and inventing rumors for our absence. Although the entire gang knew that I was – had been? – a Lampblack spy and the atmosphere stayed tense at first, Mylera had clearly accepted my excuses and her word was law. The awkwardness gradually faded as the other instructors and I rounded up our respective students, berated them for not running drills on their own, and bellowed them back into the classrooms.

Nothing like shared frustration for forging bonds.

* * *

Meanwhile, Ash was also learning that an attempt to de-stress could be incredibly stressful in and of itself. Even if he and That Which Hungers thought that forcibly converting an acolyte of a different forgotten god cult was completely justified, Ilacille obviously did not share their theological realpolitik. (And neither did her acolyte, who later reported the encounter to me with expressions of deepest disapproval.)

When Ash sauntered into the Temple to the Forgotten Gods, the priestess and Marston Haig (our erstwhile kidnappee) were both waiting for him. Marston's eyes lit up, but Ilacille only folded her arms across her chest and barred Ash's path to the altar of That Which Hungers.

"Adept Slane," she enunciated in an icy voice.

Ash stopped short, looking bewildered. "Ilacille."

"Adept Slane, I realize that you were only recently initiated into the mysteries of the gods, and so I am willing to be lenient," she pronounced, with no whisper of forgiveness in her tone. (The acolyte mimicked it for me.) "_This_ time. But what you have done to this man is not acceptable and will not happen again."

Marston made a quick movement forward, but she laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"It was the will of my god," Ash protested, turning from one to the other in confusion. "That Which Hungers hungers for followers."

Drawing herself up arrow straight, Ilacille intoned, "Of course he does. They all do. However, they are all perfectly aware that there are accords, and there are protocols that must be followed – one of which is that you _do not poach_ one another's followers. _Especially _not in the manner that you employed."

"But…." Faced with a wrathful priestess, Ash groped for the appropriate theological argument. "But…my loyalty is to my god."

"That may be so, but in this situation, certain practicalities must be considered," she replied, softening not one whit. "No one benefits from conflict among the gods." When Ash opened his mouth, she cut him off. "Some amount of rivalry is to be expected. I looked the other way for Helene," she reminded him. Ash's mouth snapped shut again. "But people must come to the mysteries of their gods _naturally_. Not like _this_." She gestured angrily at Marston.

Not looking particularly remorseful (Ilacille's acolyte reenacted this part for me too), Ash conceded, "I will grant that this is a necessity so long as the Church suppresses our worship. I apologize for not keeping my god in check, but it is not easy."

"Did your god _actually_ command you to do this?"

Ash tried to dodge the question. "He's very hungry."

Unfortunately for him, Ilacille knew both him and That Which Hungers too well to miss the evasion. "But _did_ he command you to do this?"

"I'm not sure," he confessed in a low voice.

She stared at him, as stern as any headmistress, until he bowed his head. "All right," she pronounced at last. "This _will not_ happen again. As I have told you, Adept Slane, faith is not about power." Ash looked a little mutinous at that, but she silenced him with: "If it were, we'd all be members of the Church of Ecstasy."

Convinced at last, he acquiesced. "I understand. We cannot afford to wage open war when we are not permitted to worship openly."

With a regal nod, she lifted her hand from Marston's shoulder. "Now I suppose you'd better take care of _this_."

As she withdrew to minister to the other forgotten gods, Marston practically threw himself at his former kidnapper. "Adept Slane! Tell me _everything_ about That Which Hungers!"

Ash was only too happy to oblige.


	45. More Awkward Conversations

Somewhat unsurprisingly, both Ash and I were in a celebratory mood that evening – so much so that we even splurged on dinner delivery from our favorite Brickston pub. (In other words, we hired one of Cortland's off-duty runners to jog there, order half a dozen eel pies, and bring them back in a gingham-lined basket. Brickston might be dirt poor, but even the nobility agreed that it had the most authentic Doskvolian eel pies – ones that were almost-maybe-just-about worth getting your hem muddy, your curricle scratched, and your pockets picked.) Bits of flaky pastry drifted down to coat our legs and the carpet as we ate, but Sleipnir happily mopped them up and stood on his hindlegs to wipe down our trousers with his tongue.

Partway through the meal, Faith floated in, tsked cheerfully at our barbarity, and daintily ate her pie on the table with a knife and fork and plate. I licked my fingers one by one just to annoy her.

Absently scratching our dog behind the ears, Ash asked out of nowhere, "Isha, what is your loyalty to Iruvia?"

"It _is_ my homeland," I reminded him drily. "I do have a fairly strong preference for preventing an Imperial invasion."

"Good!" he praised, as if he were one of my tutors and I'd just answered a tricky question correctly.

(Which, given my background, wasn't quite as ludicrous a reaction as it might have been otherwise. At the very least, Mylera would have been shocked by my directness.)

Slouching down comfortably in his chair – part of the new, cushioned set that had replaced the ones he destroyed in his tantrum – Ash remarked, "Well, if I were the Imperium, the first concern I would address is the Iruvian leviathan hunters. How many do you have?"

"Last I heard, nine." House Ankhayat owned five, and House Ankhuset the other four. Once it had been five each, prior to that mysterious incident that Mylera might or might not have caused and for which she'd been crucified, but leviathan hunters were prohibitively expensive to build. The Ankhusets had not yet marshalled the resources to replace theirs.

Ash's eyes opened wide with surprise. "That's not a lot of ships."

As if Tycheros had _any_! "We maintain a fleet purely to ensure self-sufficiency," I retorted. "We're not exactly trying to set up our own Lockport."

Ash looked dubious about Iruvian business acumen if that were the case, but he dropped the matter. "Well. Doskvol has the best deep-water port in the Shattered Isles, but obviously that would be off-limits in a war. Could your fleet make it all the way back to one of your own ports without refueling here?"

"Yes, theoretically." Like all the other leviathan hunters, the Iruvian ships were based in Doskvol, which, in addition to being the largest and best developed deep-water port in the Imperium, also lay closest to the Void Sea where the leviathans lived. Our ships probably carried enough fuel to reach Bright Harbor, but that wasn't exactly an option at the moment given its occupation by the Imperial Fleet. "Unfortunately, there's no way to contact the leviathan hunters when they're at sea." Houses Ankhayat and Ankhuset were not nearly friendly enough with the demon-hating Hadrakin to hire telepaths for their ships. In fact, I had absolutely no idea how House Anixis had wrangled the services of two Hadrakin assassins. No wonder Sigmund (and Grandfather, and the Patriarch) had been, shall we say, _irked_ when we killed them.

"A communications blackout _is_ problematic," mused Ash. "Isha, I think we need to speak with my family…."

"_About_?" I asked sharply. Unless the Slanes' part-demon heritage allowed them to communicate telepathically through the ghost field, I didn't see how they could be of any use whatsoever.

Ash very deliberately chose not to react to my tone. "We didn't leave Tycheros on bad terms," he pointed out, emphasizing the "we" so subtly that only another Slide would have caught it.

Now it was my turn not to react.

"We came here as merchants. We still have connections there, and no one benefits if Iruvia and Tycheros both lose what limited autonomy they still possess. We're in the same ship, so to speak, and I think increasing bonds between our homelands will be helpful."

"You don't have any Demon Princes, do you?" I inquired suspiciously.

Finally he surrendered to mild annoyance. "No, no, we're less demonic than you, in fact. All the demons are in Iruvia."

"How does it feel to be the most demonic person in the room, Isha?" murmured Faith from where she'd curled up sideways in her chair, one leg dangling lazily over an armrest. She'd been so quiet that I'd almost forgotten she was there.

I acted as if she weren't. "Are you _sure_ there aren't any demons in Tycheros?"

"We're all descended from them, but we don't worship them. And we certainly don't have Demon Princes running around telling us what to do."

Doubtfully, I reminded him, "Demons can be very subtle."

There was an impression of shocked innocence from Grandfather.

"_No_. We're _not_ ruled by demons. And that's all there is to say about that matter."

Not as far as I was concerned. "You're _positive_," I pushed. "Absolutely, _definitely_ positive."

With a sigh, Ash elaborated, "Tycheros consists of a loose association of city-states. While it's possible that we have a few demon worshippers here and there, they're no more common than in Akoros – " although given what Faith had revealed about the Church of Ecstasy, that might not be saying much – "and certainly Iruvia wins hands down if we're competing over the degree of demonic influence." I must have looked a little mutinous, because he changed the topic. "In any case, Tycheros has a lot to lose if Iruvia falls to the Imperium, so maybe we should see if we can help."

Somewhat dubiously, I conceded, "I suppose it can't hurt…." After all, Sigmund was already edging towards some kind of accord with Skovlan, and the more allies for Iruvia, the better.

"Good! Faith, are you in?"

After a loud, sustained yawn that displayed more of the inside of her mouth than any non-barber should have to see, Faith replied silkily, "I already spend my time associating with _two_ demons. Why would I want to hang out with more?"

If you could get a graduate degree in ignoring anti-demon slurs, Ash could have collected one doctorate from every university in the Imperium. He turned back to me as if she hadn't responded. "I'll set up a meeting with my mother and sister."

* * *

Despite his best efforts, Ash never did manage to find a time when Tess was free, so he and I conferred with his mother alone. Or, to be more precise, Ash conferred with his mother about Akorosian-Iruvian relations from a business perspective while I listened without saying a word.

At least, until Mistress Slane mentioned casually, "Scuttlebutt in merchant circles is that we're all trying to divest from Iruvian interests."

"Really?" I exclaimed, shocked into joining the conversation at last. "It's gotten that bad?" True, invasion was the watchword of diplomatic and military circles, but I hadn't realized that even the merchants had gotten wind of the crisis.

From the overly patient look on Mistress Slane's face, I should have realized that merchants tracked diplomatic and military developments very closely indeed. "Generally when an isle is going to be invaded, it's hardly a winning place for investment."

Slowly, Ash said, "That's true, but we – that is, Tycheros – also stand to lose a lot if Iruvia falls…."

Mistress Slane eyed her son warily. "I feel like you're leading up to something."

In a rush, Ash spelled it out for her: "There's currently a scramble to track down certain Akorosian battle plans, the specifics of which would be very useful. First of all, we might as well profit from this however we can."

I opened my mouth to protest against war profiteering, but he shot me a _Let me handle my mother_ glare, so I shut it again. Indeed, Mistress Slane's eyes lit up at the mere potential for profit.

"Secondly," Ash continued, "Tycheros' political freedom might be next, which would certainly interfere with our economy." His mother nodded slowly, digesting the implications of greater Imperial control over Tycherosi internal affairs. "There are quite a few high-ranking Iruvians in Doskvol at the moment, and if we can arrange for them to meet with high-ranking Tycherosi, it could be mutually beneficial."

"Hmmmmm." For several long minutes, Mistress Slane stared at the ledgers on her desk. At last she looked back up at her son. "You think we should ally with the Iruvians then. When did you become an _idealist_, Ash?"

On her tongue, "idealist" sounded about as complimentary as it would coming from an Anixis.

Since his actions damned him anyway, Ash embraced the epithet and explained earnestly, "When I came here and discovered what Akoros does to anyone who defies it. A stronger Imperium is good for no one. Yes, yes, I know we can't exactly help the Iruvians militarily, but…they're desperate. Or, they _will_ be."

"Yes," she agreed, carefully impassive.

"So if we offered them a safe harbor for their leviathan hunter fleet, we stand to profit – especially if war _doesn't _break out."

Mistress Slane remained silent, but now it was the silence of furious mental calculation.

As if trying to assure her that he wasn't requesting an insurmountable investment, Ash added, "I'm just hoping that we can build some bridges between the Iruvians and our contacts in Tycheros. After that, whatever happens is up to the political leaders." He spread his hands, disclaiming responsibility for their decisions.

Slowly and thoughtfully, his mother said, "I'll see what can be done. You do raise an interesting point – that Iruvia's semi-autonomy would make them an intriguing trade partner. And truth be told, right now stock prices for any venture involving Iruvia are quite low…. I suppose I do like a bit of a gamble."

I exhaled quietly, feeling conflicted over a possible alliance between Iruvia and Tycheros.

Ash, on the other hand, sagged in his chair and shot a relieved glance at me. Then he quickly switched topics before his mother could overthink things and change her mind. "You said Tess couldn't come?"

At that, Mistress Slane looked startled. "Oh. Haven't you heard?"

Somewhat defensively, he reproved her, "We've been very busy."

She forbore to comment. "Tess couldn't come because her uncle died, by which I mean Vhetin Kellis's uncle, Commander Orris. Apparently the Hive is quite abuzz right now. Djera Maha is calling for blood, and Tess is, of course, playing the grieving niece, which is consuming all of her time."

I processed that information in flash. The second-in-command of the Hive was dead, and not by natural causes, either. Given Hive incursions into the Docks, this was information that the Lampblacks and Red Sashes needed to know immediately. "Do you know what happened?" I asked, leaning forward eagerly. "How did he die?"

"It is extremely mysterious. No one seems to know a thing, except that he is definitely dead."

"Whose side is the Hive on, anyway?" Ash asked pragmatically.

"_Side_?" His mother gave him a half-incredulous, half-reproachful stare. "It's the _Hive_. It's one of the premier crime organizations in the city. The only side it's going to take is that of profit."

"And an impressive job it does of that too," Ash agreed. "You'd think the Imperial government would investigate, but it doesn't seem to care."

"The Hive is too insignificant for it to bother, really. Besides, half the nobility benefits." From the doubt in her tone, Mistress Slane was beginning to worry whether her son's newfound idealism extended to the futile, suicidal, and _massively_ unprofitable cause of stamping out organized crime.

Sounding a little dreamy, Ash reassured her, "I'm just jealous of their lucrative arrangements. By the way, if you happen to come upon the battle plans, or if you happen to know someone who is willing to pay a prolific sum for them – "

Relieved into levity, she feigned offense. "Are you asking me to fence your stolen goods for you, Ash? I'm a legitimate businesswoman!" Then she smirked, and he chuckled.

We left her office with her promise to send us letters of introduction to her Tycherosian contacts, as well as to keep an ear out for news of the battle plans. While I doubted that the merchant circles would find them before an agent of House Anixis, I certainly wasn't going to discourage an informant.


	46. Most Awkward Conversation of Them All

And now, at last, I couldn't avoid Bazso any longer.

I wanted to face him still less.

Unlike Mylera, he knew nothing about my background save that my mother grew up in Lockport (and hence had an excellent taste in whiskey that she'd transmited to her daughter), married an Iruvian, and moved to U'Duasha. Cautious prodding on my part early in our relationship had established that the four Houses meant nothing to him beyond hazy notions of remote, irrelevant nobility, so even if he _had_ known my lineage, he wouldn't have leaped to conclusions about duplicity and double-dealing. After a lifetime of watching Iruvians slant sideways glances at me while they parsed my words for traps (don't ask me why, but they expected even simple requests like "Whiskey, neat, please" to contain layers of hidden meaning), I'd found Bazso's ignorance refreshing.

Now any honest conversation between the two of us had to involve my real name, my real motivations, my sword, my brother – basically, every single awkward topic that was going to make the Cat and Candle conference look like dinner-party small talk. Suffice to say that honest, awkward conversations were _not_ integral to House Anixis training. At all. No, our tutors stressed that they were a thing to be averted.

But I couldn't put off my weekly report any longer – Bazso _was_ still paying me as an informant, after all – so off I slunk to the Leaky Bucket. Although I cravenly hoped that he'd be out on business, there he sat in his usual booth, with Pickett next door scowling at a cowering goon. She redirected her glower at me as I crossed the pub, passed two feet from her without acknowledging her existence, and halted before her boss.

At the sight of me, Bazso's eyes lit up and he started to remove his hat, but I gave a quick shake of my head and announced formally, "I have news."

Instantly, he snapped into business mode. "Have a seat."

When I moved towards the bench across from him, he slid further into the booth and gestured for me to sit next to him. I obeyed, maintaining a distance decorous enough to satisfy the most draconian chaperon, and watched Pickett re-orient herself so she could eavesdrop. "I don't know if you've heard this already," I said to both of them, "but Commander Orris of the Hive is dead."

Neither of them looked the least bit surprised. "I'd heard the rumor," Bazso replied calmly, while Pickett stared at me as suspiciously as an Iruvian would. "Do you know the details?"

I summarized Mistress Slane's report: "No, but it couldn't have been from natural causes, because Djera Maha is calling for revenge."

Again, he didn't bat an eye, suggesting that he'd already heard that too. Why had I even come? Sometimes confessions were best saved for better – _i.e._ other – times. Sometimes the better part of spy craft involved running away. I started to edge out of the booth, but Bazso tensed and demanded, "Was it the Sashes?"

The possibility hadn't even occurred to me. "Not that I know of," I replied. Which wasn't saying much, given that Mylera certainly wouldn't have told _me_ any of her plans, but – "It's not their usual _modus operandi_. If Mylera has a problem with another gang, she's more likely to declare war – " I gave him a meaningful look – "than to quietly assassinate one of their lieutenants and not take credit." I shot a meaningful look at Pickett, who glared right back in habitual animosity.

Bazso was already nodding agreement before I finished my sentence. "It didn't seem like her style, but desperate times and all that." When I opened my mouth to inquire whether aforementioned desperate times had prompted the requisite desperate measures and, more precisely, desperate _reconciliations_, he added curtly, "We have a meeting. Tangletown. Next week." His clenched jaw showed just how much that prospect excited him.

"Oh, _good_," I breathed, sagging a little. At least Mylera hadn't scuttled those plans in a fit of pique.

Only after I'd indulged my relief did I realize that now I was well and truly out of time. Any Lampblack-Red Sash parley would end all compartmentalization between the two halves of my identity. Mylera would tell Bazso that I'd double-crossed _both_ of them, reveling in the revelation when she discovered that he genuinely did not know. This honest, awkward conversation that I'd been dodging needed to happen right now, when I could still control what he learned – and how.

"We'll see. We'll see," Bazso was saying, somehow managing to sound resigned and mutinous at the same time. "We'll see," he repeated once more, just in case he hadn't made himself clear. With a deep sigh, he wound an arm around my waist and tried to scoot me closer.

Stiffening, I resisted the scooting, lifted my chin, and met his eyes. "Bazso.… You know how I said things were complicated and I'd explain sometime?"

His arm dropped from my waist, and he backed away slightly. "Yeeees?" His tone was wary now – wary, but not yet suspicious. That was about to change.

Folding my hands in my lap, I drew a deep breath and said determinedly, "So…it occurs to me that you'd prefer to hear this from me than someone else."

"Oh gods." He backed away even more, then glanced across the booth and grimaced at his second-in-command's posture. Pickett had practically plastered herself against her table to eavesdrop.

Straightening with hauteur, she met his gaze challengingly. _I _told_ you not to trust her,_ her cold eyes reminded him. _I told you _over and over_ not to trust her._

Just as his jaw began to tighten, I tugged on his arm and gave him a pleading look. "Can't we talk somewhere private?"

His carefully impassive expression gave nothing away. "That might be for the best."

As usual, we wound up evicting Sawbones and taking over the storeroom. Sitting down heavily on the sometime-operating table and folding his arms across his chest, Bazso pinned me in place with a level stare, one that said that whatever his gut instinct, he'd resolved to hear me out first. "So what's going on?" he prompted.

Standing before him, I clasped my hands loosely in front of me. "Things got a little complicated…."

"You mentioned that."

I tried to delay the inevitable by going off on a tangent. "I was forced to tell Mylera my real name, so I thought it only fair to tell you as well."

"Okay." He waited, thinking – correctly, but for all the wrong reasons – that the matter of my real name wouldn't have provoked this rigamarole.

Even though I _knew_ he wouldn't react as Mylera had because he lacked the context, the words still stuck in my throat like eel bones. I hacked them out: "I'm Signy Anixis." Deliberately, I omitted my title, but honesty impelled me to add, "My brother is the heir to House Anixis of U'Duasha."

As expected, Bazso drew a complete blank. From "heir" and "House Anixis," he could infer that my family was important, but that was about it. "So…," he said slowly, frowning as he puzzled out the implications, "you're like…royalty?"

As close to it as you got in Iruvia. A tiny, treacherous part of my mind wished that he were Mylera so I didn't have to spell it all out. "Not really," I replied shortly.

He took a moment to process both the answer and the half-truth. "Okay," he said at last, accepting them for the time being. "So what are you doing in Crow's Foot?"

Seemingly of their own accord, my fingers twisted into the fabric of my trousers. Bazso's eyes followed the movement, and I forced myself to stop. "Things were…a little complicated at home. I ran away."

He nodded, as if he heard that story all the time. And perhaps he did. Perhaps "complications at home" encompassed everything from vicious vendettas to showers of toxic, mutation-inducing rain.

Waving a hand helplessly in the direction of the common room (and Pickett), I said, "I got here and…and you know what happened next."

He nodded again, more impatiently this time.

"I – I guess what I haven't been forthcoming about – " (besides everything) – "is…is that I haven't actually been working for either you or Mylera," I spilled out in a rush.

"_What_?" Like a wave in the Void Sea, he surged off the table and loomed over me, ready to crash down on me. "_Explain_."

Although I locked my knees and stood my ground, I couldn't help cringing. Shakily, I reminded him, "I told you once: My family has a lot of branches that are always killing one another, which is why I ran away. When I came here and saw what was going on in this district, I thought that if I could figure out how to fix Crow's Foot, I could figure out how to fix my family too…."

"So, you've been trying to…," he began, a note of disbelief surfacing.

I finished for him, "To reconcile you and the Red Sashes. Yes."

"So you _lied_ to me. You _never_ worked for me." Fury, shock, and betrayal swept through his voice. My mind skittered away from the fear that I'd lost him and caught on, of all things, that oil painting of the naval battle that hung in Mylera's office, all roiling storm clouds and brilliant lightning and ship-killing waves….

Like one of those electroplasm-powered automaton toys, my lips protested, "I _have_ been working for you," then clamped shut a second too late. I'd just admitted that I _hadn't_ been doing that, had never done that.

Bazso advanced on me, his rage threatening to drown me. "You've certainly been taking my money, yes," he growled, each word like a physical blow.

(Faith's voice, mocking me from far away: _Is the nature of your relationship with Bazso Baz a _transactional_ one? _

_No,_ I insisted. _No, it isn't. It's not like that_.)

Folding his arms, Bazso stared down at me contemptuously, as if he'd just figured out what I truly was: an informant for sale to the highest (or most recent) bidder. _"_You know, I believed you had some loyalty to me, to this gang. I didn't realize we were just, what – a _puzzle_ for you to solve?"

It was uncannily close to Mylera's reaction, down the very last drop of anger, disbelief, and hurt.

I wanted to apologize. I _needed_ to apologize.

But I was an Anixis, and I didn't know _how_ to apologize.

"I thought you cared." There was a hint of wonder in his voice now, wonder that he of all people had misjudged my character so badly and for so long. "I thought you genuinely cared about us."

"I _did_ care!" I burst out. "If I didn't care, why would I have worked so hard to bring about something _neither_ of you wanted – for your own good?"

His fists clenched, and for a split second I thought he would strike me. I'd been with him for two years, after all. I'd seen firsthand what he did to those who betrayed him and his gang, had even advised him on some of it. Much like the Ankhayats, Bazso preferred to punish traitors in the most straightforward manner – and at that moment, I would have welcomed it.

But then his eyes re-focused on my face, and whatever he saw there stopped him just long enough to reign in his rage. Very deliberately, he took one step back, followed by another. Subsiding back onto the table, he conceded in a calmer voice, "Yeah, you did, at that." Then, as if he'd just registered the shabbiness of our surroundings, he gestured around the dried-goods-storage-turned-doctor's-clinic-turned-secret-conference-room. "I suppose we must seem very…I don't know. You're probably used to much fancier things."

His almost wistful resignation made me wish that he'd punch me instead. Anxious to reassure him, I blurted out, "It's true I was used to fancier things, but I don't think that fancy things are worth having when they're coated in blood."

It was a line worthy of the worst penny dreadful on sale in Brightstone. Sigmund would have groaned at the melodrama and then quoted it every time he wanted to humiliate me, but Bazso, like the straightforward gang leader he was, homed right in on the "blood" part.

"You do know," he warned, "that even if I manage to reconcile with Mylera, it's not like there won't be blood. It just won't be between us."

I concealed a start of surprise. I genuinely hadn't considered that, hadn't planned beyond wrangling and manipulating the two of them into sitting down in the same room and just _talking_. Some Anixis I was. "It's a start."

"Presumably, the next thing is for us to move jointly against the Hive." Bazso's voice took on a scathing edge he'd never directed at me before, as if he wouldn't put anything past me at this point. "Unless you're planning to negotiate with _Djera Maha_?"

That might not be a bad idea, although I certainly wasn't going tell him that. I hedged, "I don't know much about her." Yet.

"She's ruthless. It won't work," he enunciated flatly, cutting off that avenue. "Also, she's a monster and I have no interest in working with her."

"Sounds like a tempting challenge, but it's probably not worth it…," my tongue supplied on autopilot while my brain searched frantically for a way to salvage our relationship. It was a truly Anixis thing, was it not, to recognize my friends only _after _I betrayed them?

_Bazso, I'm sorry…. _But I couldn't speak the words.

"A tempting _challenge_…," Bazso quoted back incredulously. "So what about _us_?" He waved an arm between the two of us, encompassing everything we'd shared, or that he'd thought we'd shared. "Am I just a means to an end?"

"No!" I cried, lurching forward. "Of course not!"

"I don't know if it's an 'of course' anymore."

The matter-of-factness in his tone stopped me short. I thought of my family's reputation, of how Mylera always assumed the worst of me, and wondered if Bazso too would scan my every action for deceit from now on. My shoulders slumping, I whispered, "I don't know what I can say to make you believe me."

He echoed, "I don't know either."

In a last-ditch attempt to show good faith, I offered intel on myself unbidden. "Will you trust me more if I tell you that I promised Mylera not to report on the Red Sashes to you anymore?" I asked hopefully.

While Mylera would have recognized the gesture at once, Bazso didn't know a thing about how House Anixis operated. "I don't see how that will make me trust you more!" he exploded. "_At all_, actually!"

Taken aback by how badly that had backfired, I struggled to make him understand. "It means that I'm not feeding you their lies, for one thing – "

"That's _not better_!" he stormed. "You _do_ see how that's _worse_, right?" At my utter bewilderment, he caught himself, breathing hard. "Look – Glass, Isha, Signy, whoever are you – I've been relying on your information for a long time!"

"And I've _brought_ you good information for a long time – "

"Except apparently you've also been feeding me their lies at the same time! Which I suppose makes sense if you're the quintessential double agent, because it means that you've been feeding them _our_ lies too – "

As if by magic, a bottle of whiskey appeared in his hands and an empty glass on the table, and then he was gulping liquor straight from the bottle while he strove to compose himself. I watched anxiously, trying and failing over and over to frame an apology.

"So what happens now?" Somewhat calmer, Bazso set the bottle on the table with a dull thud and searched my face with his eyes. Perhaps, once he took a minute to think, he _had_ grasped the significance of my admission, because he asked, "Why are you even telling me this?"

"I don't know." It might have been the most honest thing I'd ever said to him. More softly, hanging my head so I didn't have to meet his baffled gaze, I mumbled at the floor, "I'm sorry."

"Oh, Isha." I glanced up just in time to see him start to extend a hand, wanting out of habit to comfort me. Then he dropped it to the table, where it lay like a beached whale. "Okay," he said. "This is a lot to take in. I need to think about a lot of stuff." With a shake of his head, he repeated grimly, "A _lot_ of stuff."

My heart sank as I waited for his dismissal. Unlike with Mylera, I had no tricks for winning him back – no special etiquette to disarm him, not enough of a shared background, save for a love of whiskey, to draw on. Somehow I didn't think that begging or stealing a bottle of Skovlan's best from Sigmund would help me here.

As I prepared to slink out of the storeroom and flee the pub before Pickett could organize a charge, Bazso asked abruptly, "What do I call you?"

My head jerked up. He was regarding me thoughtfully, perhaps reading the sincerity in my remorse. Hope flared at his use of the present tense, and I whispered, "I've gotten very used to 'Isha.'"

"Me too," he agreed gently. "We'll stick with that. Okay. I'm going to go home and think this over. I'll talk to you in a few days."

"You know where to find me," I offered, in what anyone from U'Duasha would have recognized as a gesture of supreme trust.

Bazso, however, merely nodded absently.


	47. Our Order of Ornery Orphans

I slunk back to the railcar, fully intending to mope in my compartment for _days_. However, a new distraction soon popped up.

In addition to new furnishings and the unwelcome wildlife you'd expect in the Old Rail Yard, we'd slowly been accumulating an assortment of (more or less) wanted pets. Almost as soon as we moved in, my hideous, three-legged dog Sleipnir had showed up, and lately Faith's loyal-to-the-hand-that-dismembers-juicy-ghosts-to-feed-it companion Cricket had also taken to loitering around her compartment. In fact, I held Cricket directly responsible for our next batch of pets.

Faith, who bore equal blame for the affair, triggered that fatal chain of events with an innocent-sounding request: "Isha, I'm going to be running errands for the next few hours. Would you do me a favor and tail me to make sure nothing untoward happens to me?"

Listlessly carving a slot into my armrest so I could hide a stiletto there, I asked without real interest, "What kind of errands are you running?"

She, naturally, talked right over me. "Also, please report on my behaviors when I get back!"

"What?" I nearly dropped the stiletto before I rammed it into the armrest and clicked shut the compartment. "What's going on, Faith?"

"Thank you, Isha! You're the best!"

She darted forward, pecked me on the cheek, and scampered back into her compartment before I could even finish protesting, "Faith, wait, explain!"

* * *

About fifteen minutes later, she re-emerged, still wearing the same fluffy, lavender dress, but moving in a distinctly un-Faith-like manner. Purposefully, she clattered down the railcar steps, marched straight through Nightmarket without even glancing at the ribbons on display, and made a beeline for Six Towers. Stalking right up to the Arms of the Weeping Lady, an opera-house-turned-soup-kitchen near Rowan Bridge, she plowed through the line of raggedy men and women waiting for their daily allotment of canal weed soup, and vanished into the unlit alley behind the building. By the time I'd skirted the irate heap of beggars she'd bowled over, she was crouched over a hole in the ground, retrieving a pistol hidden under a cobblestone. Holding it expertly (something I'd never seen Faith do before), she rose, walked in a businesslike way into a tenement, and matter-of-factly picked the lock on one of the flimsy doors (I was pretty sure Faith didn't know how to do that either – both the matter-of-fact part _and_ the lock-picking part). Straightening, she drew back one high-button-kid-leather-booted foot, kicked open the door with a dramatic crash, and strode into the room.

My own gun at the ready, I sprinted forward and reached the doorway just in time to glimpse an elderly couple seated at a broken table, forks frozen over the remnants of a worm-'n-rat pie (another Doskvolian specialty). A rusty oil lantern cast flickering shadows over their shocked faces.

Almost without bothering to aim, "Faith" coolly raised the pistol and fired two shots in quick succession.

The elderly couple crumpled in their chairs, blood streaming from holes in their foreheads, and "Faith" smiled – a grim, satisfied rictus of a smile.

Childish shrieks pierced the room.

Edging sideways, I peered around the doorjamb to see a small clump of ragged children in the far corner, clinging to each other and trying to press themselves into the wall. (Given the flimsiness of tenement construction, that wasn't as ludicrous a proposition as it might have been in a Brightstone mansion or, say, on the Anixis estate.) Without sparing a glance for the children or me, "Faith" turned smartly on her heel, marched back out of the tenement, replaced the pistol under the cobblestone, and strode back towards Coalridge.

Stunned, I tailed her on autopilot. The only logical explanation I could beg, borrow, or scrape together was that Cricket had possessed Faith and used her body to murder an elderly couple in charge of a passel of children. Their grandchildren? No – too many ethnicities from all over the Shattered Isles, and nary a trace of family resemblance. An orphan gang, then, with the couple as their handlers. And given Cricket's age just on the cusp of womanhood, she must have worked for them and blamed them for her death – if they hadn't murdered her themselves.

Almost certainly had, if she were dead (haha) set on revenge. Honestly, she'd probably done those children a favor.

Except – what would happen to them now? The oldest child couldn't have been more than twelve, and without an adult to hand over rent each month, their landlord would summarily evict them.

_Not my problem_, I reminded myself, dodging a bucket of dirty water that a woman dumped out a second-floor window. Doskvol was infested with almost as many street children as Sleipnir was with fleas, and they – the street children, but come to think of it, probably the fleas as well – tended to be a resourceful bunch. Just look at Bazso's runner Bug, or those Strathmill House orphans we'd hired to distract Chime and the Bluecoats. These Six Towers children could fend for themselves.

But try as I might, I couldn't forget the way they'd huddled together, so much like Sigmund and me as we cowered at the back of a closet, or under a bed, or inside a chest – wherever our parents had hidden us while they fought off the latest batch of assassins. What would have happened to _us_ if…no, no, don't even think it.

A length of steel underfoot jolted me out of my thoughts. Without realizing it, I'd arrived at the edge of the Old Rail Yard, and in the distance, the door of our railcar was slamming shut behind Faith's figure. Whirling, I raced all the way back to Six Towers.

* * *

The children were exactly where Cricket had left them, still quivering in a pile on the floor. Terrified, tear-streaked faces tipped up to greet me when I crossed the room, placed my hands on my hips, and stared down at them. What in the world was I going to do with four – no, five – small children?

The oldest of the bunch, a brown-haired, grey-eyed Akorosian boy, cautiously disentangled himself from clutching hands and stood. Shakily, he positioned himself between me and the others. "Yes, miss?" he inquired politely. "How can I help you?"

Although his bravado touched me, I kept my voice matter-of-fact. "Who were they?" I asked, tilting my head towards the two corpses.

"They were our bosses?" he quavered. One of the other children, a ten-year-old Akorosian girl with brown eyes and hair that might have been dirty blonde if you scrubbed it with copious amounts of soap and (clean) water, made a little noise of warning. The boy hastily corrected himself. "I mean, they were our aunt and uncle. Yeah, yeah. Definitely our aunt and uncle."

I just raised an eyebrow. If they were all one big family, then Sleipnir and Starlight were first cousins. "All right, then – what did your _aunt and uncle_ have you doing for them?"

His eyes went wide, and he darted a glance behind him at the others, who were slowly untangling themselves and straggling to their feet. In addition to the Akorosian girl, there were also a Skovlander girl with red hair and green eyes; a black-haired, brown-eyed Severosi boy; and a tiny, malnourished blond and brown-eyed Skovlander boy.

Making sure to stay between me and the others, their spokesman answered evasively, "Oh, you know. Odd jobs."

"Such as?" I prompted.

"Who are you, miss?"

"Someone trying to help." They all looked incredibly wary, as if that might be synonymous with someone-whose-loved-one-desperately-needs-an-organ-transplant. "What will you do now?"

"Dunno." This time, it was the Akorosian girl who answered, scuffing a bare toe on the filthy floorboards.

"Strathmill House in Crow's Foot would take you in," I suggested in my most soothing tone. In fact, the orphanage wouldn't be a bad place to deposit them – the matron, while overworked and underfunded, did her best to keep her charges fed, clothed, sheltered, and alive.

At the mention of Crow's Foot, the tiny Skovlander boy squeaked and ducked behind the Severosi boy.

"Yeah, maybe," agreed the oldest boy, sounding as if he'd promise anything to get me out of the tenement and away from his brother- and sister-orphans. "We could stay there for a bit."

Scanning the children, I could tell that none of them had any intention of seeking asylum in _Crow's Foot_. I sighed. It had been worth a try. "Alternatively, you could come home with me and work for my crew."

"Uhhhh," said the spokesman, very carefully _not_ looking in the direction of the table, "would we have to kill people?"

"No no no," I reassured him. "It would be more like – " Like what? What did one do with miniature humans? Growing up, Sigmund and I had never interacted much with our cousins. "Like scouting. Keeping an eye out for things. Delivering messages." Maybe we could finally stop borrowing other gangs' runners. Ash would appreciate that.

The spokesman looked around at the other children, meeting their eyes one by one. Each nodded, apart from the youngest, who was too busy playing with broken cup. "Yeah, we can do that," the spokesman promised. "We're good at that."

"Good!" I said, surveying their ill-fitting, dirty, crumpled attire. "Let's get you some new clothing then."

"_Clothing_, miss?" It was the Skovlander girl who whispered the question this time, awe and disbelief in her eyes.

"Yes," I replied briskly. "We can keep this set for situations where you need to blend into certain environments, but you also need cleaner, better outfits to fit into other parts of Doskvol."

The orphans goggled at me as if I'd sprouted tentacles and horns and started speaking Tycherosian. Oh. Maybe I needed to use smaller words.

"Are you going to buy us _shoes_?" asked the Severosi boy breathlessly, correctly interpreting the gist of my sentence.

"_Yes_," I told him, and firmly herded them into Nightmarket, where I paid the public-bath attendants to scrub and de-louse them, and bought them each two sets of clothing (one for Coalridge and one for Nightmarket; we'd see about Charterhall after a few deportment lessons). Then I stuffed them with pastries and candied mushrooms from whatever street vendor caught their eye and generally reprised Kallysta's last day – but hopefully with a happier ending this time.

* * *

"Iiiishaaaaa?" Shutting an account book, Ash surveyed us warily when we finally entered the railcar common room. "Why is there a herd of children behind you?"

Stepping aside, I gestured grandly at the orphans. "Ash, meet our new runners and spies!"

Our new runners and spies scuttled sideways and bunched up behind me again.

Leaning forward for a closer look, Ash asked patiently, "Why do we have new runners and spies?"

I smiled guilelessly. "I thought that a guild of our status should have its own runners, rather than to borrow them from other crews every time we need them."

"That's true, I suppose…."

While he pondered behavior becoming of our guild's status, Faith strolled out of her compartment. She was still wearing that frothy lavender number, the front of which was spattered artistically with little red dots. Padding up to the children, she drawled, "Why, _you_ look like a delicious little morsel."

They just _compressed_, then cast terrified looks up at me. "Miss?"

Faith looked briefly puzzled before resuming her circling.

"You lived in Six Towers," I pointed out. "You've seen people get possessed, right?"

"Yeeesss…?"

"She usually doesn't go around shooting people. Let's just put it that way."

Increasingly perplexed, Ash demanded, "What just happened, Isha? Where did you find five random orphans?"

At the same time, Faith was explaining to the children, "She's _right_. I'll have you know that I normally electrocute people with my lightning hook. Shooting people just isn't my usual _modus operandi_."

I was pretty sure none of them knew what "modus operandi" meant, but they didn't like it anyway. "As far as I can tell, Ash, our great, grand Whisper over there got herself possessed, and while she was possessed, she went to Six Towers, found a gun, walked into a tenement, picked a lock, opened a door, and shot these kids' 'aunt and uncle'."

Although I'd hoped to irritate Faith with my summary, she merely preened.

"Faith!" Genuinely shocked, Ash spun towards her. "How did _you_ get possessed? You're, like, the goddess of magic!"

"Oh my goodness," she remarked, fanning herself modestly. "I think I have a new favorite person!"

"You literally wave your lightning hook – " Ash flapped his arm to demonstrate – "and the supernatural comes to worship you and do your bidding! I've witnessed this on multiple occasions," he told the children, who goggled at his pitch-black right hand.

With fake somberness, Faith confessed, "And yet, sometimes a larger bribe is required."

Ash just sighed before he turned back to me. "In any case," he admitted, "we _have_ enjoyed some successful interactions with orphans in the past…. What are your names?"

The oldest boy twitched forward bravely, ready to act as spokesman, but I spared him. "That's Spider," I said, tipping my head towards him. Pointing at the Akorosian girl, I introduced her: "That's Moth." The red-headed Skovlander girl was Beetle, probably aged nine, and the possibly-seven-year-old Severosi boy called himself Mantis. Finally, the scrawny, underdeveloped Skovlander boy of whom all the others were so protective was named Locust. He was five if you rounded up. Generously.

After that, I introduced my crewmates to the children, finishing with, "And that's Sleipnir." The mutt had hopped up to the youngest children and was licking pastry crumbs off their fingers. Now Mantis tentatively stretched one hand towards Sleipnir's head. "Do not torment him," I warned, "or I will know why."

Mantis snatched his hand back. "Sorry!" he cried. "Sorry sorry sorry!"

"Petting is fine."

Bored again, Faith cast an arch glance in my direction. "You wouldn't notice if one of them went missing, right?"

Mantis squeaked and wrapped his arms around Sleipnir's neck.

Before I could respond, Ash leaped in. "_Yes_," he informed Faith in a quelling tone. "Yes, we would notice."

"But there are a _lot_ of them!" she protested, with a pretty pout that turned incredibly disturbing when paired with the blood splatters on her dress.

"No, there are _five_ of them," Ash snapped back, "and their names are Spider, Beetle, Moth, Mantis, and Locust." He pointed at each one (with his normal left hand) as he spoke their names.

With a final pout, Faith flopped into her chair and pointedly turned her back on all of us.

Ash shook his head slightly. Frowning at no one in particular, he asked, "Now, where should we put them?"

I'd had plenty of time to consider the issue while the bath attendants were scrubbing and de-lousing the children. "We do have a number of empty compartments," I reminded him, waving my hand in the direction of the hallway. "The limiting factor is mattresses – maybe we can put them all in one compartment for now, and once we get enough bedding – "

A small hand tugged at my trousers, and I looked down into Beetle's green eyes. "Please, miss, we can all stay together," she pleaded.

I blinked a couple times. "Uh, sure, if that's what you want."

Ash and I wound up assigning them the compartment furthest away from both Faith and our vault. ("Never go in there," he warned, pointing at the vault and scowling until they each cringed and nodded solemnly, even little Locust.) Once we'd gotten them settled in, Ash, being his mother's son, recommended medical exams to ensure none of them harbored any untreated diseases. Although he knew a mediocre doctor in Coalridge itself, I insisted on dragging the children to the Leaky Bucket, ostensibly to familiarize them with Crow's Foot. Delighted by the prospect of a new experience, Faith "woke" from a nap in time to join our little expedition.

If I'd hoped to see Bazso again, I was sadly disappointed. His and Pickett's booths were both empty and remained empty for the duration of our visit. Still, the rest of the Lampblacks treated our crew normally, that is to say, like the heroes who'd executed Ronia Helker the Butcher of Lockport. I took that to mean that Bazso still cared enough about me to keep my secret from his gang.

I hoped.

Naturally, Sawbones was bewildered – and the rest of the Lampblacks exceedingly entertained – by the sight of three hardened assassins playing mother duck to a motley assortment of street children plus one three-legged dog, but the doctor gamely inspected each orphan and pronounced them "fit for service. Er, I mean, they're healthy enough." While he was at it, he took a look at Ash and me too. Although Ash's wounds would just have to heal on their own, he did saw off my cast at last.

"Outstanding!" Faith proclaimed at the end, lining up the children in front of Mardin's counter so the former head of the Crows could hand each one a glass of sweet watermoss juice. "Now I dub thee, and thee, and thee, and thee, and thee as well – " Locust giggled – "our Order of Ornery Orphans! Now I charge thee to go forth and – "

When she struck a dramatic pose and took a deep breath, I inserted sarcastically, "Be ornery?"

Mardin and the nearest Lampblacks chuckled. Locust giggled again.

"No!" She swung her finger around and stabbed it at the children, who clutched their glasses and flattened themselves against the bar. "I charge thee to go forth and do whatever it is children _don't_ do in libraries of priceless texts, vaults of gold and silver and jewels, and workshops full of potentially lethal electroplasmic equipment!"

I'd have bet the contents of our vault that they didn't understand a word of what she said, but they turned out to be brilliant at reading context. When we returned to the railcar, they coaxed Sleipnir into their compartment (not that he took much coaxing), shut the door tightly, and didn't make another peep until we hauled them out for dinner.


	48. Tangletown

Over the next few days, all of us slowly adjusted to our new living arrangements. Ash hovered in or near the vault and prayed to That Which Hungers more often than his wont, I kept a sharp eye on Sleipnir in case any of the orphans harbored budding psychopathic tendencies, and as for Faith – well, Faith got to play disciplinarian for what was probably the first time in her life.

"_No!_"

Her voice rang out so loudly in the common room that I heard it all the way across the railcar, where I was busy applying cosmetics to change the contours of my face. Although I personally had no problem with letting the orphans spread out, Ash had already firmly expressed his desire for a child-free haven, and it seemed that Faith concurred. Dropping my makeup brush, I scrambled out of my compartment and sprinted down the hall – a task complicated by Beetle and Mantis fleeing the opposite way and colliding with my legs.

By the time I unentangled myself and skidded into the common room, Spider and Moth were tugging at Locust's arms while Faith snapped, "Cricket, if any of them are still here in fifteen seconds, you have my permission to possess them."

At the threat, Moth's eyes went wide and Spider yanked even harder, but Locust only giggled happily, thinking the whole thing a great joke.

Then a blue glow rose above the bar and swooped towards the children, at which point Moth dove shrieking for the hall, and Spider bodily picked up Locust and carried him kicking and screaming out of the common room.

Once I'd calmed the younger children and reiterated the ground rules for the older ones, I finally finished costuming – but when I tried to leave, Mantis caught sight of me and insisted on coming, Locust started wailing again, and Beetle pleaded with me to stay. Even with the combined efforts of Spider, Moth, Sleipnir, and me, it still took a good twenty minutes to get everyone settled.

It looked like I needed to give myself a much larger buffer from now on if I wanted to make it to appointments on time.

* * *

Thanks to child-wrangling – about which I probably shouldn't complain since said children were entirely my fault – I was so late to Charhallow that Ash finished our heat-reduction exercise himself. By the time I puffed into the bar where we'd agreed to meet, he was all done and chatting amiably with a group of off-duty laborers. When I collapsed onto the bench beside him, he inquired, "Something come up at home?"

With a moan, I rubbed my temples. "Yes. The children weren't…happy when I told them they couldn't come."

"I see." Ash grimaced.

He'd already gotten rousted out of bed obscenely early this morning, when Cricket drifted out of Faith's compartment and into the orphans' – by accident, we were pretty sure, because contrary to expectations, the ghost showed little interest in the kids. Regardless of her intent, anyone raised (for generous interpretations of the word "raised") in Six Towers was justly terrified of ghosts, and so our pack reacted with a great screaming ruckus.

"We recently adopted some street children," Ash explained to the hard-faced, heavily-muscled washerwoman who was nursing a tankard of ale next to him. "They're quite a handful."

The laundress' face relaxed into a chuckle, and she hoisted her tankard. "Cheers to that. Aren't they all?" Then she noticed that I was still flopped on the bench, too exhausted to move. "You look like you need a drink. What do you want?"

"Anything. Whatever you're having," I groaned. As she rose, I added an emphatic and heartfelt, "_Thank_ you."

Under cover of the pub's din, Ash updated me on what he'd learned while spreading disinformation about our activities. "Chime got released from Ironhook Prison and didn't return to the Billhooks," he reported, which was roughly what I'd expected. "But Ian Templeton's still in there. Apparently writing a seditious play that _incites_ a riot is a much more serious offense than _starting_ the riot." (Chime, or rather, the ghost who'd bought his body from Nyryx, had confessed to our Spiregarden crimes.) "Oh, and Mayvin's house burned down last night. With him inside."

"Who?" I asked absently. I'd gotten distracted trying to determine whether any of my traps would catch the children by accident. At the very least, I needed to re-design the ones underneath the railcar, given that Beetle, the most inquisitive of the lot, would probably poke any unusual mechanical devices until she figured out what they did.

In this case, nothing good.

"Mayvin," Ash repeated, incredulous that a fellow Slide could forget a name. "Eridan Mayvin. The curate who replaced Kender Morland?"

Oh, right, him. "Was it arson?"

"Definitely. A few vagabonds who hang out near his house spoke with some strangers – Dagger Islanders – just before the fire."

"Dagger Islanders?" I asked, trying to catch up. if anything, I'd expect a mob of vengeful Tycherosi to murder Church officials. "What do the Dagger Isles have to do with any of this?" Was it time to pay a visit – or urge Sigmund to pay a visit – to their Consulate?

"I don't know yet. But Mayvin's sister Lauretta is also in the Church – surprisingly high up for her age, in fact. She's put out a public statement mourning the loss of her brother, decrying the violence in Charhallow, and making veiled threats about prosecuting the perpetrators to the fullest extent of the law."

"Okay." That wasn't a problem for us. Yet.

"Here you go." A brimming tankard of ale thudded down in front of me, sloshing its contents across the sticky wood. The laundress sat back down heavily, vibrating the bench, and then eagerly leaned forward on her elbows. "Did you hear about Crow's Foot yet?"

I swallowed some of the ale the wrong way and coughed and sputtered until she pounded me on the back. When I could breathe again, I demanded, "What about Crow's Foot?"

Her eyes sparkled with excitement of imparting momentous news. "That fellow yonder – " she pointed at a burly workman surrounded by drinkers at the bar – "says that the Lampblacks and Red Sashes are having a meet! Right now!"

"A _meet_?" I squeaked, feeling as if she'd knocked all the breath out of me (which she had). True, Bazso had told me it would happen soon – but I'd assumed he'd alert me. I'd assumed he'd _invite_ me. "The Lampblacks and Red Sashes are _meeting_?"

"I know, right? No one knows what it means!"

Our conversation was starting to attract a small crowd: "Here now, what's this about the Lampblacks and Red Sashes?" "Are you sure it's not a joke?" "Why would they meet?"

Eyeing me sidelong, Ash fished, "How did they even find neutral ground to meet on? Isn't all of Crow's Foot a war zone?"

"Tangletown, man," drawled a thug from the back. "That's where all them par-lees happen."

Raising her voice to regain control of her audience, the laundress declared, "Exactly. Bazso Baz and Mylera Klev are having a par-lee in Tangletown."

As the pub degenerated into a mass of wild speculations about what the gangs were doing and what it betokened for Crow's Foot and the Docks, Ash and I skillfully detached ourselves and slipped away.

Out on the street, Ash said, "I assume you're not joining us for dinner tonight?"

"Don't wait for me."

Even though I wasn't dressed for Crow's Foot, I took off at a run.

* * *

High above the banks of the canal between Crow's Foot and Silkshore towered the crumbling smokestacks of Tangletown. Two centuries ago, one of the Strangford leviathan hunter captains – who was either drunk or possessed, depending on the story – was steaming full-speed down the supposedly-dredged canal when he crunched onto a rocky shoal – which had either been overlooked by lazy government contractors or raised by demonic powers to stop him, also depending on the story – and partially sank his ship. By the time the City Council bickered its way to a consensus on how to handle the affair, a horde of dockers, prostitutes, gondoliers, and artists had already swarmed the wreckage and converted it into a miniature floating district. Apparently even the Strangfords balked at the asymmetric warfare required to clear them all out. Since then, the old leviathan hunter had acquired a veritable convoy of houseboats, fishing boats, rowboats, and even tented rafts, on which the squatters lived and conducted business.

Unlike the Leaky Bucket or the Cat and Candle, Tangletown was genuinely neutral ground for all of the Crow's Foot gangs. In theory, no weapons were allowed past the rickety little "bridge" (a string of retired gondolas lashed side by side) that bobbed up and down on the brackish waters. In practice, because you couldn't cut off the fists and tongues of every scoundrel who wanted to parley there, the rule translated into "No open carry without just cause," justness of said cause to be judged by the Mayor of Tangletown.

Tonight, as I wobbled across the floating platforms, I immediately noticed the tension. No fisherwomen bawled conversations across deck railings as they gutted the day's haul of eels. No children ran shrieking and sure-footed over the bobbing boats. Instead, the little watercraft were eerily still, and up on the decks of the leviathan hunter patrolled figures wearing black overcoats or red sashes. Somehow, I didn't think Bazso's and Mylera's security would just wave me through.

So I attached myself to a knot of drunken street performers who were swarming up a ladder bolted to the hull. Once onboard, I queried the locals until I learned that The Parley, as everyone was calling it, was underway in the old mess hall. For a handful of slugs, one of the urchins even led me to the entrance to what he promised was mess hall ceiling crawlspace. After I'd flattened myself on my belly and wriggled along several feet, I began to hear voices from below, oddly distorted by the metal.

Peering down through a crack between two steel plates, I saw a cavernous space lit by a few naked bulbs swinging from the ceiling. In the shadows, security ringed the walls and eyed one another warily while pointedly keeping their hands away from their weapons. (Although the Red Sashes had forgone their swords, each one wore a silk sash, so of course the Lampblacks had countered with revolvers.) Seated on opposite sides of a long wooden table were seven leaders from each gang, arrayed in their finest. Each Lampblack wore a clean black wool overcoat and silk top hat, and as for the Red Sashes – well, let's just say that I hadn't seen such a concentration of brightly colored robes since the last diplomatic reception at the Iruvian Consulate.

As I watched, the woman at the center of the Red Sashes turned to her lieutenant and commanded regally, "The map, if you please, Xayah?" before leaning back towards the Lampblacks and saying something in a low, intense voice I couldn't make out.

"Of course." Gracefully and unobtrusively, just like her great-uncle on the Anixis Estate, Xayah unfurled a large map of Doskvol across the table and weighed it down with oil lanterns. Another Red Sash lieutenant, Ardashir, produced a handful of red and blue Iruvian chess tokens.

Absently, Mylera – who bore a shocking resemblance to the Ankhayat Patriarch in that moment – nodded her thanks as she might to a servant. Plucking a red pawn from the heap, she positioned it precisely in the middle of the Docks, then leaned back, folded her arms, and stared steadily at Bazso. In the lantern light, her bejeweled, intricately wrought gold necklace flashed bright enough to stun a goat.

Utterly unimpressed by her finery and seemingly immune to her demeanor (come to think of it, I might be responsible for said immunization to ex-noble arrogance), Bazso loomed as patiently and solidly as one of the jet-black mountains around U'Duasha, which had watched over the city since long before the Houses clawed their way to power, and would continue to tower over the caldera long after our memory crumbled and blew away on the desert winds. Almost without glancing at the map, he seized a blue pawn and planted it right on top of the Crow's Nest. Then he rumbled something at Pickett, who signaled to the guards by the door.

They promptly admitted a slightly nervous, briefcase-toting figure. Plastering my cheek against the steel plates, I squinted through the glare of the electroplasmic bulbs until I recognized Quellyn, a local witch who specialized in ghost contracts.

Right as Bazso stood to pull out a chair for her, a clatter of boots above my head reverberated through the crawlspace. Scowling, I began to press myself even harder against the steel plates – until a man overhead ordered, "Check in there, Bug. Bazso said to patrol _everywhere_."

I barely escaped before the Lampblack runner clambered into the crawlspace.

* * *

A couple hours later, I was lounging against a streetlight on the bank of the canal when the exhausted Lampblack leaders strode off the bridge. Straightening and tipping my head slightly so the light fell across my face, I lifted a hand in greeting. At the sight of me wearing rags and getting soaked in the rain, Bazso raised one eyebrow but didn't act particularly surprised. Without breaking stride, he gestured Pickett, Henner, and the other Lampblacks to go ahead before waving me over. Pickett glared at me ferociously – _someday, girl, someday I'll prove beyond a doubt that you're a traitor _– and trailed behind the others so she could eavesdrop.

Detaching myself from the lamppost, I squelched over and fell in step beside Bazso. When he didn't utter a word, I slanted a glance up at him and feigned a casual shrug. "People talk."

Cast into shadow by the brim of his top hat, his face remained inscrutable. "I figured people would know this was going on."

Since that was the way we were playing it, I matched his neutral tone. "Yes," I agreed conversationally, as if I were observing that it was raining in Doskvol. "It's quite the talk of the underworld. How is it going?"

Shooting me a warning glance, he replied flatly, "It's going well enough."

"That's good." I kept my voice light and pleasant, as if we were exchanging small talk in a tea room. "So what did you think of Mylera personally?"

"_Mylera_?" Whatever question he'd expected, that was not it, and he had to take a moment to consider his answer. "We still don't get along, but…I'd rather share the district with her than with _Djera Maha_." He pronounced the name in much the same way Mylera spoke Lyssa's. Then, clearly fishing for information, he added, "She's certainly suspicious of _you_."

Still in a careless tone, I inquired, "What makes you say that?"

"Well, shortly after we started the conference, she mentioned that she wanted to ensure that all the proceedings occurred 'free from any Anixis plots.'"

Annoyed out of my act at last, I complained, "I thought we _talked_ about that. What did _you_ tell her?"

"Uggggh, _Isha_! I told her that if that were the way she wanted to do the conference, then that was the way we would do the conference!"

So much for hoping he'd defend my integrity. Once I'd gotten my voice back under control, I asked coolly, "So what's the plan now?"

"We continue to negotiate," he replied curtly. "And then I – that is, _we_ – probably have a job for you and your crew."

"Really? What sort of job?"

He raised a significant eyebrow. "Are there multiple kinds of jobs that you do?" he asked, dry almost to the point of sarcasm.

Fair enough, but the entire day – and this conversation in particular – had put me in a testy mood. "We're versatile," I informed him. (Which was even true: Two Slides, a Whisper, a pack of juvenile delinquents and juvenile-delinquents-in-training, the _ghost_ of a murdered juvenile delinquent, plus a three-legged dog could wreak a great deal of havoc.)

In any battle of grumpiness, I held the upper hand. Caving first, Bazso clarified, "We need you to kill someone."

"I figured as much. Who?"

"_Isha_," he scolded. "Let the negotiations finish first!"

There was another long, surly silence. Up ahead, Pickett's smugness polluted the very air around her.

At last, Bazso confessed in a low rumble, "She _is _more reasonable than I expected her to be. _If _this goes through, and _if _she holds up her end of the bargain, it will be good for us. All of us."

"That's what I've been telling you all along," I informed him tartly.

Unsurprisingly, conversation died again after that. When we were only a few blocks from his townhouse, I finally worked up the resolve to ask my _other_ question. Hesitantly, not certain any longer that I wanted to hear his answer, I probed, "So…the last time we talked, you said you needed time to think."

Stiffening, he began to walk faster – not a particularly encouraging sign. "I did." I trotted to catch up, and he said without looking at me, "I still do. I need to take care of this first. This is – " He cut off the rest of that sentence and finished with, "I need to take care of my people."

I noted that he did _not_ include me among "his people."

Glancing down at me, he registered my expression and said patiently, "Isha, you know that if someone were trying to kill you, I would be right there – but that's not what this is about."

Whatever "this" even referred to at this point. "I understand," I replied in a low voice.

He, of course, caught the tremble in it but chose not to react. In a business-like manner, he told me, "Like I said, you can expect a runner. Probably tomorrow, actually." Not trusting myself to speak, I jerked out a nod. "And now, it has been a very long day and I think I am going to try to get some sleep."

"All right. I will talk to you soon."

He nodded absently, caught up to Pickett, and vanished into the darkness.

After standing in the rain in the middle of the alley for a long moment, I spun around and marched straight into the nearest second-hand clothing shop. Based on the social calendar Sigmund's footman had provided, my brother was currently attending a dinner at the Skovlander Consulate. After that, whether he knew it or not, he had a date with me.


	49. Sigmund's Townhouse

"Turn about, fair play, I suppose?" inquired a neutral voice.

As soon as I heard the front door open and the butler welcome his master, I'd very deliberately sprawled out across Sigmund's cushy desk chair, occupying every available square inch so he couldn't squeeze in next to me. Now I glanced up lazily from the sheaf of correspondence in my hands: increasingly impatient orders from the Patriarch to _find me now_ (the Hadrakin were hounding him for justice, it seemed), a plea from Hutton for more funds and false papers for his Skovlander-independence terrorists, routine updates from Elstera Avrathi. What I _hadn't_ found was any sign that my brother had reported me yet.

Planted in the doorway of his study, staring down at the clutter of ribbons straggling all over his desk, not to mention his errant sister plonked in _his_ chair wearing one of _his _shirts (the ballgown got soaked on the way over) – but no pants, Sigmund looked rather as if he were beginning to regret that decision.

Dimpling at him innocently, I sat up and pushed a heap of letters at him. "Here, help me tie these back up. It'll go faster with two people."

His sole response was to stride across the dressing-room-turned-study, pick up the spare chair in the corner, set it beside the desk, and cock his head reproachfully.

The spare chair looked distinctly less padded. Tucking my stockinged legs under me, I smiled back pleasantly. Unless he deployed physical force, this wasn't a battle my brother ever won. Somewhat grudgingly, he resigned himself to the lesser chair. Then he plucked the papers out of my hands and began to organize them into some special order only he knew.

"Did you come up with any ideas for saving Iruvia?" he asked, his very calm conveying sincere doubt that I'd remembered our homeland in the midst of all my extracurricular preoccupations.

He was almost as bad as Grandfather. "I did, in fact," I informed him snippily. While I memorized the order of his letters, I summarized Ash's argument that it was the Unity War that had preserved Iruvian semi-autonomy for so long. At the end, I explained, "I'm not saying that we should restart the civil war in Skovlan – "

Sigmund's lashes fluttered in the briefest blink.

I stopped short. "_No!_ You're_ not_!" Then, at his twitch – "Does _Mother_ know?"

"Of course she knows."

"And she's _okay_ with it?"

"You know Mother. She'll do what's best for the House."

I processed the reproof and winced a little. "As I was saying, I plan to cause enough domestic turmoil in Akoros to deter the Immortal Emperor from launching an invasion. My crewmates already want to take down the Church of Ecstasy."

"They're ambitious," he observed, carefully neutral.

Yes, yes, that they were. _Hungry_, even. "So I'll help them with that. In addition, I want to reach out to Akorosian political dissidents, such as Odrienne Keel and Ian Templeton, and see if I can persuade them to write pamphlets and plays and generally rile up the intelligentsia, who might then apply pressure on the Imperial government."

"That's a good idea," Sigmund praised, sounding unflatteringly startled by my political acumen. "I'm not sure about Templeton – he never struck me as _that_ much of a dissident, although Ironhook Prison may have changed his mind – but I know Keel."

"Well, I don't, so can you give me a letter of introduction?"

"Yes, of course." He immediately pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and began to write in hypnotically beautiful longhand.

As I watched the pen nib scratch across the paper, I mused, "I have to confess that I'm curious how _A Requiem for Aldric_ was supposed to go. The first act was brilliant – well, at least, it was until we tampered with it – "

Somehow, Sigmund didn't seem too surprised that I'd been involved with suspicious riots. "Was it the same patron as for the Hadrakin – " he started to ask before quickly stopping himself. "Never mind, I don't want to know."

Yes, safer for both of us if he maintained plausible deniability, although I missed the days when we told each other everything. As he continued to write, a companionable silence, tinged with regret, settled over the study. I didn't speak again until he was pressing his fake signet ring into the sealing wax. "How's the family doing?"

"I'm fairly certain you've inferred how House leadership is doing," he replied drily. He laid the letter very precisely on the desk between us. "Father's been keeping busy. He's in his office all the time." After a deliberate pause – long enough to signal that what he revealed next was intentional – he confided, "Intel on the fleet in Bright Harbor came from his spy rings, of course."

I nodded. "Of course."

"Mother…Mother has been very sad." The filial son raised his eyebrows at the unfilial daughter. "She has to hide it in public, but she's been drinking a _lot_ of whiskey in private. Father is getting worried. As am I."

The image of our mother, tall and proud and composed, drowning her sorrows in alcohol like a Charhallow laundress made me cringe inwardly. "And our dog?"

"Starlight is with Isha – your wet nurse, that is. Both of them are openly sad because they are allowed to be." Sigmund gave me a moment to appreciate the magnitude of the grief I'd caused, then snapped, "By the way, Signy, what possessed you to use your _wet nurse's_ name as an alias?"

I gave an uncomfortable shrug. "It's a bazaar name." That was an Iruvian expression for names popular with the lower classes. Given just how many bazaar names there were, though, it wasn't a particularly strong defense.

"Mmmmhmmm." Sigmund pursed his lips but dropped the issue. It was too late for me to pick a more discreet fake real name anyway.

"Have you told Mother and Father that you've found me yet?" I asked hesitantly.

"I haven't told _anyone_," he replied grimly.

"Do you think…do you think the Patriarch will ever pardon me?" I asked even more hesitantly.

My brother heaved a heavy sigh. "I think that we – " I noted and approved of the plural – "can win concessions if your plan works. But Signy – " Leaning forward, he picked up my hands and squeezed them to soften his warning: "Even if that happens, nothing will be different. We'll still be under Ixis' control. As a matter of fact, it's not the Patriarch you need to convince, but Ixis."

Yanking my hands away so fast that he actually looked taken aback, I snarled, "So I should pander to Grandfather so he'll sway the Patriarch?"

"Was it really so bad at home?" His plaintiveness hurt to hear.

With equal wistfulness, I countered, "Are we really a normal family?"

My brother closed his eyes, acknowledging the truth behind that question. "No…."

On an impulse, I suggested, "What if you all just moved _here_?"

His eyes flew open, and he stared at me as if I'd recommended unconditional surrender to the Imperium. "What – all of us? Mother and Father too?"

I nodded vigorously. "And Starlight and Isha and Lasa, too, if she wants to come," I added, naming _his _wet nurse. Like Mylera, like Bazso, like the Slanes, like every other immigrant to Doskvol, we could start over fresh here. As a family.

Sigmund obviously hadn't converted to the Doskvolian gospel of ethnic diversity and melting pots and such. "Signy, that's – " He stopped, exhaled loudly, ran a hand through his hair. "And anyway, unless we cut all ties with the House, nothing will change. It won't achieve what you want."

This time I noted his use of the second person. Unwilling to deal with two painful subjects in quick succession, I cast about for a more innocuous topic. What I came up with was: "How is the search for the battle plans going?"

It was perhaps a measure of our family (or, more accurately, its dysfunctionality) that Sigmund breathed a sigh of relief at being asked by a traitor to divulge top-secret intel. "I have a lead, although I'm going to have to hire some _very_ expensive Shadows." At my puzzled blink, he elaborated, "There may be a copy in the Lord Governor's strongbox. In Whitecrown."

"In the _Lord Governor's_ – " I squeaked. While my crewmates and I were prowling about Coalridge and Charhallow and Six Towers, here was my brother merrily commissioning scores right in the Imperial stronghold itself! Sigmund definitely operated on a much higher tier than I these days. "Why does everyone want these plans?" I complained. "Why are they so important anyway?"

"Because," he lectured with exaggerated patience, "they're Ronia Helker's. Meaning that even if a different general or admiral comes up with a more_ effective _plan, Iruvia would still be better off. And anyway, it's easier to counter something if you know what's coming," he concluded more prosaically.

"Speaking of that, one of my sources – " Mylera would throw a fit if she heard me refer to her as my asset, but she wasn't here, was she? – "suggested that someone has been pushing for war. What do you know about the decay in relations between Iruvia and Akoros?"

From the way Sigmund went dead still, I could tell I'd surprised him. Once upon a time, when our tutors set us to compete against each other, he'd have wasted time resenting me for uncovering a conspiracy first. Now, he merely looked thoughtful. "In the circles I move in, there's certainly been a lot of hotheaded talk lately. Of course, it's all coming from idle young nobles who never fought in the Unity War and have no understanding of the cost…." His lips twisted in contempt, and he sneered, "They speak quite passionately about bringing Iruvia to heel, the way they crushed Skovlan."

"In front of _you_?" I exclaimed. "But they think you're from Skovlan!"

His jaw clenched. "The civilized, urbane _crème de la crème_ of Doskvol do not draw that connection. They believe that because I dress like them and speak like them and act like them, then naturally I must think like them too. And if I don't, I should."

"Ah." Give me an honest scoundrel – in fact, give me Pickett – any day. "Well, you already have too much on your plate. I'll investigate who's rousing the rabble, so to speak. Do you have any suggestions for where to start?"

Still grimacing, he told me, "No one below the upper-middle class is worth your time. The nobles don't talk to them."

That only narrowed the search to all of Brightstone, which was so big it had taken my entire crew to find him, plus Whitecrown, which was so insular that any newcomer would stick out like a hand lantern in a no-lamps neighborhood. "All right. I'll let you know if I hear anything."

"Please do." Sigmund's attention was already shifting past my shoulder, towards the bathroom where my ballgown was still leaking bluish water into his tub. "Where did you get that?" he asked with professional interest.

"At a secondhand shop in Crow's Foot." I twisted around as he brushed past my chair. "Sometimes performers will sell or pawn costumes on their way home to Silkshore."

"Mmmhmmm." He inspected the soggy dress, comparing its cut and color to the latest fashion plates.

"Do you want it?" I offered. "It's a little big for me, but it should fit you. I'll trade you for a shirt. And pants."

Eyeing my stockinged legs, he shook his head in amusement. "You're impossible," he smirked. "It's a deal – but not that shirt. You'll get mugged if you walk into Coalridge wearing it. Plus I happen to like it and it's _mine_."

"Deal. So are you going to kick me out or let me stay the night?"

"You're impossible," he repeated fondly.

* * *

An hour before dawn, he shook me awake, shoved some clothing at me, and shooed me out the back door. I walked into Coalridge wearing a shirt that he _was_ willing to part with, plus a pair of breeches that had shrunk in the wash.

No one tried to mug me.


	50. Waiting

Perhaps the adults-only common room was a good idea, because the conversation I walked in on later that morning was very much not rated suitable for all audiences (particularly not Moth, who seemed to be developing extreme spectro-phobia after her encounters with Cricket). The entire railcar was quiet except for murmurs drifting from the common room. When I silently placed my ear to the door, they resolved into Ash saying, "I read something about it in a book – "

Faith's high-pitched, drawn-out yawn pierced the door just fine. "You shouldn't believe everything you read in books, you know."

Obviously filtering that out as part of the price of her mentorship, Ash persisted, "Where can I find a demon to practice talking to? Do you know any?"

"Why, yes!" I heard a little thump, as if Faith had been perched on the bar and now jumped off. "In fact, I know a _couple_ demons you could practice on! Have you met this friend of mine, by name of Ash?"

That friend of hers, who might be re-considering the title, huffed, "Ideally it would be a grotesquely inhuman demon."

Personally, I thought he was walking – no, diving headfirst – into a trap there, but Faith actually missed it and feigned sudden enlightenment. "Aaaah, you want _actually_ demonic. Why didn't you say so from the start? Is having demonic _parts_ sufficient? Like a demonic kidney? I hear Isha has this friend, whom you might also know! His name is Bazso or something?"

Even though no one could see, I rolled my eyes.

Ash must have done something similar, because Faith chirped, "Well, if you're looking for something _truly_ horrific, there's this old friend of mine who would _love _to chat with you. In fact, I think she's one of Isha's friends as well! She lives between Six Towers and Nightmarket."

"Do you mean the tentacled canal demon, by any chance?" demanded Ash.

"The one with the giant, bladed suckers? Yes! She's very friendly – very nice. Tell her I sent you."

At that point, I decided to intervene before Faith got Ash eaten, drowned, or both. Tiptoeing back down the hallway, I re-approached the common room, treading heavily this time. Then I pushed open the door and said, "Good morning! Do we have any coffee?"

"Ah, Isha!" Ash greeted me with unsurprising relief. "Coffee is on the bar, if Faith hasn't knocked it over." Over the usual outcry ("I would never!" and "Coffee stains are even harder to get out of silk than blood, you know!"), he plotted out our day: "I suggest we start training the Insect Kids to be effective skulks, the sooner the better. A cohort of scouts would be most useful, especially after we teach them how to act like civilized human beings. Did you know that they're all _illiterate_?" Tycheros must have had a higher literacy rate than Doskvol or U'Duasha, because he sounded personally affronted.

Sauntering over to our shiny new coffeemaker, I poured myself a mug. "They did grow up in a tenement in Six Towers," I pointed out. "They're smart. They'll learn. It might be a little more frustrating for Spider and Moth, but Locust just hit reading age anyway."

Ash gaped at me. "You mean that in Iruvia, you don't start teaching children to read until they're _five_?"

"Savages!" Faith murmured, ostensibly to herself but at a volume that carried around the common room.

"There are plenty of other things to learn before then!" I retorted. Etiquette, for one. You wouldn't want your toddler to offend your third-cousin-twice-removed and trigger a blood feud that would end only with the extermination of one of your branches of the family, did you?

Ash just heaved a mournful sigh at Shattered Isles barbarism before he stalked past me into the hallway. Composing himself, he rapped loudly on the orphans' door. "It's food time!" he sang.

The door creaked sideways, and five human faces plus one furry snout peered out. Moth and Beetle, I noted, both had pink ribbons in their hair.

"'Food time'?" repeated Spider warily, gesturing for the others to stay in the compartment while he ascertained their new masters' intent.

"Yes," I confirmed. "Come on, we're going out for breakfast."

Five sets of eyes blinked in confusion, as if the "most important meal of the day," or whatever the Ministry of Preservation was calling it these days, were a thing that happened to other people.

"Come along now!" Ash gestured for them to fall in behind him, which they did in order of decreasing age, and led them out of the railcar by the door closest to my compartment. "So where did you normally eat? Back when you lived in Six Towers?" he inquired conversationally.

Spider glanced at me for encouragement, then replied like a student who already knew his answer was wrong, "At…our aunt and uncle's?"

"Ah, well, we don't do much cooking in the railcar – " more like we didn't do _any_ cooking in the railcar; as Faith would say, we were too busy killing people – "so let's go to a restaurant. What do you like to eat?"

"A _restaurant_, sir?" breathed Beetle, her eyes lighting up. "A _real restaurant_?"

"Yes, yes, of course."

Catching their starstruck expressions, Ash hand-signed at me, _We'll have to teach them how to order in restaurants too, won't we?_

_Probably_, I signed back_. _

Even though most of the pubs tacked up crudely illustrated menus (for the benefit of factory hands who didn't think they should be punished with reading comprehension assessments on top of twelve-hour workdays), the children still had no idea what to do. We had to explain that they needed to attract the servers' attention first (preferably politely, if you weren't a burly tough), and then point at what they wanted. Once we'd sorted that out, the hardest part was keeping Spider from doing all the talking for the others. Mantis, in particular, required copious amounts of urging before he ventured an order.

And then we had to explain forks.

At the end of Coalridge Dining 101, which was probably a great deal more entertaining for the clientele than the wait staff, we allowed the children to flee back to the railcar. Before they could dive into their compartment, Ash quickly laid out the ground rules. "Hang on a second, here's how this will work. You'll get all your food for free." As soon as the words left his mouth, he looked as if he had second thoughts. "Three meals, per _person_, per day," he specified, just in case they tried to exploit the arrangement and gorge themselves into butterballs. "One bath, also _per person_, per day."

They were too awed (or maybe too full) to object to preventative de-lousing.

"In fact – " Ash theatrically fished in his pockets for his coin purse – "let me give you your allowance for the rest of the day now, so you can start getting used to handling money. This should cover lunch and dinner plus baths for all five of you." He counted out an appropriate number of slugs (reasonable, but not extravagant) and dropped them into Spider's trembling hands. Eyes huge, the other children pressed up against him, goggling at the fortune. "For now, I'll give you one day's worth of funds at a time. Once you've demonstrated your ability to budget money appropriately, then I'll increase it to two days' worth, then three, and so forth."

Dazed, Spider nodded as if he'd forgotten all his Akorosian.

"Oh, that reminds me of something else. Have you ever seen a play?"

"A 'play'?" asked Beetle, dragging her gaze away from the slugs at last.

"What! Do you not know what a play is?"

They all stared blankly, as if he'd started spouting Tycherosian. A frown creased Moth's brow as she mouthed "play" to herself. Tentatively, Spider explained, "We've never been outside Six Towers…."

"That was unacceptable parenting on the part of your `aunt and uncle' then!" Ash snapped. "We'll do _much_ better. Isha, can you arrange to take them to the theater?"

"Sure."

Mentally, I cycled through the categories of entertainment in Doskvol, starting at the top with Spiregarden Theater, working down through the Silkshore burlesques, and finally hitting rock bottom with the jugglers and fire-eaters in the Docks. In fact, street performers were probably the best place to start. Once we taught the Insect Kids to impersonate middle-class children (and assigned them fake real names), I'd organize a field trip to the Charterhall Playhouse.

Charterhall and its proximity to Crow's Foot reminded me of something even more important than the cultural arts: "Before I forget, let me tell you where _not _to go in Coalridge." At that, they stopped sidling away and came to rapt attention as I provided a quick rundown on the district. I also gave them pointers on where to find the bathhouse and the best food stalls, finishing with, "For now, avoid Crow's Foot and Charhallow unless one of us takes you there. Uh, one of the two of us," I clarified, waving my hand between me and Ash. I didn't trust Faith not to relieve her ennui by thrusting them into danger just so she could observe their reactions.

All the children bobbed their heads solemnly. Beetle and Mantis exchanged wary glances before Spider herded everyone into their compartment and shut the door firmly behind them.

* * *

Which was just as well, because the next adults-only-common-room conference between Ash and Faith went something like this:

"Nyryx recommended some places to search for fragments of the Gates of Death. Will you help me?"

"Mmmmmm, maaaaaybe. Why are you asking me? Is it because I'm a _beautiful_ and _amazing_ and _clever_ Whisper?"

"It's because you're a _powerful_ Whisper."

"So you don't think I'm beautiful and amazing and clever, then."

"You're intelligent and powerful," Ash conceded.

"That's one out of three." She pushed out her lower lip at him.

"You have a beautiful pout."

"That's one-and-a-half out of three."

"Ugh!" Ash surrendered unconditionally at last. "Fine! I would like your help because you're clever, amazing, and beautiful."

"There you go!" Faith beamed, as smug as if she'd personally coached a developmentally challenged student step by step through a simple math problem. "Let's go!"

And they vanished for parts unknown, leaving me to tail the orphans when they crept out to Coalridge's shopping district on their very first solo expedition for baths and food. Personally, I thought they acquitted themselves very well.

* * *

When we returned from dinner, there was still no word from Bazso.

That night, I dreamed that he and Mylera sent assassins after each other over a silly misunderstanding while I screamed and screamed.

* * *

In the morning, I was listlessly buttoning up my shirt when Ash called from the common room, "Isha, there's a bug here for you!"

Which could mean any of the following: an Insect Kid seeking parental comfort; the Lampblack runner, come to summon us to Tangletown; or a particularly large specimen of the wildlife that inhabited the Old Rail Yard, and that Ash didn't want to deal with himself.

To my relief, it was Option Two, planted insolently in the center of the room with his hands on his hips, surveying the place as if he'd just bought it and were trying to decide what to keep and what to throw out. His eyes lingered critically on the pink, rose-patterned rug and the matching gauzy curtains tied back with poufy pink bows. He didn't bother to acknowledge my arrival, although his eyeballs did slowly swivel from the ribbons to my face and stay there accusingly, holding me personally responsible for the décor.

Which seemed utterly unfair, given that the culprit was sitting _right there_ in a pink chair on the pink carpet in front of the pink curtains, wearing a pink dress.

Also, none of the runners ever treated Bazso that way.

"Bug," I snapped, grouchy and in no mood to indulge him, "if you're here, I presume it's because you have a letter for me. Kindly produce it." I held out an imperious hand.

With a disdainful sniff, he produced a crumpled wad of paper and shoved it at me. "Here." Then he stared impudently, waiting for me to pay him to go away.

While I normally would do just that, today His Highness would have to endure my company a little longer. "Spider!" I called, pitching my voice to carry into the hallway. "Moth, Beetle, Mantis, Locust, there's someone I would like you to meet!"

The Insect Kids obediently tumbled out of their compartment, scrambled into the doorway – and then froze, as if held back by a forcefield (or sheer terror of Faith). Recognizing his privileged status, Bug sneered.

"It's all right," I assured our runners-to-be. "You can come in here."

"_This_ time," Faith promptly specified, rather undermining my efforts to introduce the children to one another on equal footing.

Hesitantly, the orphans crept into the common room and arrayed themselves slightly behind me, on the other side from Faith.

"This is Bug," I told them, stepping aside. "He's a runner from the Lampblacks."

Awed by his membership in one of the famous Crow's Foot gangs, the Insect Kids gaped at him. Bug, naturally, puffed up, raked each one with a contemptuous stare, and then glanced away. Beetle bristled. Spider and Moth very deliberately did not react. Mantis and Locust just looked confused.

I hid a sigh. "You'll be seeing a lot of him," I instructed our orphans, "especially after you start delivering messages for us. Bug, these are our new runners." I named each one in turn.

He condescended to favor them with a regal nod before demanding, "So are you going to pay me, or what?"

It was _my_ turn not to react as I counted out enough coppers to dispatch him. Once I'd dismissed Insect Kids too, I finally uncrumpled the letter and flattened it on the table. I recognized Mylera's elegant handwriting immediately, although the message was couched in Bazso's blunt words: "We have a job for you. We'll be waiting at Tangletown." I could just picture the two of them hunched over the mess hall table, Mylera with her pen poised over a sheet of paper and frowning ever so slightly as Bazso dictated.

Looking up at Faith and Ash, I announced, "The Lampblacks and Red Sashes want to hire us. Shall we head over to Tangletown?"

"I suppose, if we must…," sighed Faith, allowing one arm to slip off her armrest and dangle listlessly.

"Wait, how do you know this isn't a trap?" Ash objected. "I mean, you did betray _both_ gangs. You don't think they're just the slightest bit upset with you at the moment?"

Faith's eyes suddenly lit up, and she bounded out of her chair.

"No, no, it's fine," I dismissed his worries. "I was expecting this. Bazso told me this was coming."

"And after _years _of gang warfare, they just came to the conclusion _overnight_ that the Hive is a bigger threat so it's time to bury ye old battleax?" Ash inquired sarcastically.

"Either that," Faith cried, opening the door and energetically shooing me through it, "or after careful consideration and discussion, they came to the agreement that the hideous and horrendous betrayal by an agent of both was sufficient cause for them to come together to rid the world of that agent once and for all!" As always, her lack of need for oxygen was a marvel to behold. "And thus, they have decided to lure her in with a letter and a trap!"

"Yeeees." Ash stretched out the syllable even more sarcastically. "So you're saying that we should go and fall into this trap?"

"_I_ want to fall into this trap! If I don't fall into this trap, how will I see what happens to Isha?" Diving back across the room, Faith latched onto his arm and tugged hard.

Ash rolled his eyes heavenward. "Given that you used to work for the Church, haven't you already seen plenty of horrible things?"

"Oh no, the things they do to Isha will be far, far worse. Or at least different. I'll settle for different." Faith obviously relished the prospect of watching two gang leaders brutally murder and dismember her crewmate – possibly not in that order – for the sheer novelty of it all.

Sticking my head back through the doorway, I snapped, "_Nothing's_ going to happen at this meeting, except that they're going to offer us a job!" Presumably to take out Djera Maha or another high-ranking member of the Hive.

Bracing against Faith's tugging, Ash registered his official protest: "I still think this is a terrible idea. Maybe we should take Cricket along for backup."

"You're welcome to call for her," Faith shrugged, dropping his arm. "Isha and I will meet you on the boat."

"We're not going to need any backup!" I exclaimed, fed up with both of them. "_There will be no trap!_"

Ash looked highly dubious. Faith looked utterly crestfallen. But both of them followed me out of the Old Rail Yard and across the city to Tangletown.


	51. Bazso and Mylera's Job

As soon as we crossed the boat bridge and climbed onto the old leviathan hunter, I sensed a change in the atmosphere. Although the Tangletown natives were still keeping a low profile in case the gangs started shooting, the Lampblack and Red Sash guards now formed a joint perimeter instead of patrolling separate parts of the deck. In the mess hall, security stood to attention just as alertly as before, but most of the gang leaders were starting to slump a little. Behind Mylera's back, Xayah rubbed her eyes, and Ardashir, a senior sword master and their third-in-command, squelched a yawn before answering Henner's question. Even Pickett's shoulders had relaxed. Marginally, anyway.

Unlike their lieutenants, Bazso and Mylera hunched over the map, discussing something in low, intense voices. At our entrance, they straightened in unison to face us, resembling nothing so much as a pair of granite statues framing a temple portal. In the manner of a high priestess granting an audience to supplicants, Mylera began, "After long and careful consideration, we have come to an agreement. In order to seal that agreement, we would like to commission you to – "

With his trademark bluntness, Bazso cut in, "We want you to kill Lyssa."

It was an indication of a true détente that none of the Red Sashes even bristled at the interruption. Instead, an undercurrent of excitement swelled in the room.

"Lyssa?" I yelped. "You want us to kill _Lyssa_?"

"Just to be clear, we're talking about Lyssa, the leader of the Crows, yes?" Ash asked, faking a little frown of confusion.

"Yes," stated Bazso at the same time that Mylera retorted, "Is there any _other_ Lyssa we would hire you to kill?"

"But I thought this was a trap for Isha!" Faith burst out. Her lower lip protruding in a beautiful pout, she wailed piteously, "It's just another score! If I'd known that ahead of time, I could have stayed home and inventoried my ribbon box!"

Xayah and Ardashir, who must have remembered Faith from her brief tenure at the sword academy, gave her distinctly teacherly stares, while Pickett attempted to stab me with her scowl. _Control your crewmate, girl_, her cold eyes warned. _ You're responsible for her conduct here. _Mylera's and Bazso's faces might as well have been carved from stone.

Stepping forward and just happening to position himself so he blocked Faith, Ash initiated business negotiations. "You want us to kill _Lyssa_." He drew out the target's name, conveying doubt that they grasped the full magnitude of this commission.

While he set the stage for another epic haggling session, I casually drifted towards the table to survey the map. By now the section containing Crow's Foot and the Docks bristled with red and blue chess tokens, but the biggest change was a thick black line running north-south and dividing the districts in two. The Red Sashes got a little more of the Docks, which made sense given their drug smuggling operations, whereas the Lampblacks got a little more of Crow's Foot, which also made sense given all the brothels and cheap drug dens they had sprinkled across the district.

_She _is _more reasonable than I expected her to be_, Bazso had said of Mylera, and I was glad to see the proof.

A throat – Pickett's, of course – cleared noisily. When I raised my head, two pairs of eyes – one brown, one blue – were fixed unwaveringly on me. Neither gang leader, it seemed, wanted me to get too close to the map, in case I "accidentally" knocked over and rearranged some markers to my own advantage. Slightly insulted, I sauntered back a couple steps.

Rather unfairly, in my opinion, no one objected to Faith roving throughout the mess hall, inspecting empty chairs and testing the springiness of their seat cushions.

Meanwhile, Ash was lodging a _pro forma _protest as a prelude to naming an exorbitant fee. "It can certainly be done," he assured the gang leaders, lest they withdraw the commission and offer it to a different crew, "but assassinating a faction leader – especially a faction leader who is the ward boss of two districts – will be exceedingly risky, to say the least."

At that, Bazso and Mylera exchanged incredulous looks. Bazso spoke for both of them: "_You're_ worried about killing Lyssa?" _After you killed _Ronia Helker_?_ his raised eyebrows asked.

Answering both questions, Ash explained in a judicious tone, "We're getting cautious in our old age."

Neither gang leader looked impressed.

"So how much do you want?" Bazso demanded at the same time that Mylera inquired drily, "What would be required to overcome your _cautiousness_, then?"

With perfect confidence, Ash announced, "Eight coin, plus turf. As I'm sure you know by now, we've recently taken an interest in raising orphaned children – " if Bazso's eyebrows went any higher, they'd float right off his head – "and our railcar is getting a little cramped."

Mylera gritted her teeth as if she knew exactly where this was going and didn't like it one bit.

Beaming angelically at both of them as if he were certain they'd leap at the chance to display their benevolence, Ash called upon their innate altruism: "Naturally, Strathmill House would be most helpful to our effort to educate and rehabilitate the street children of Doskvol."

(Plus provide a fresh supply of orphans to swell our cohort, a public face for our crew, not to mention that turf toehold he'd coveted for mysterious reasons ever since the Skannon Vale score.)

From a back corner, Faith purred out that stereotyped think-of-the-children appeal, "Just think how convincingly, how conclusively, how _categorically_ it would certify your civic spirit!"

Because after waging a bloody war that generated so many orphans in the first place, the gangs suddenly developed a desire to give back to the community?

Ominous rumbles rose from the lieutenants. Pickett's clear, cold voice lifted above the grumbling: "Overpriced – "

"You know," Bazso rebuked Ash, "it's not like we can't do this ourselves. We just thought it would be better politically if neither of us were involved."

I glanced at my crewmate sidelong, waiting for his comeback.

But it was Mylera who spoke first. "Six coin," she proclaimed, silencing both gangs. Scrutinizing my face rather than Ash's, she repeated, "We will offer six coin. No more."

"Plus the orphanage," Ash put in quickly.

This time, Mylera looked across the table at Bazso, who shrugged and spread his hands as if to say, You'd_ be the one getting new neighbors_. Sour over losing a corner of her own turf, even if it were a tiny nibble right on the border between Crow's Foot and Charhallow, Mylera turned back to us and agreed grimly, "Plus the orphanage."

Ash flashed a hand-sign at Faith and me, requesting our approval.

_Yes_, I signed back.

"Whatever," Faith shrugged, slouching over to join us.

While Ash finalized payment details with Bazso and Mylera, I murmured sarcastically, "Faith, are you still dejected, devastated, and disconsolate that this wasn't a trap for me?"

Perking up at the chance to perform in front of two gangs instead the usual one, Faith struck an injured pose and declaimed shrilly, "I would _never_ wish such a thing upon one of my teammates and allies!"

That got everyone's attention. The Red Sashes, who unlike the Lampblacks had never experienced one of her extemporaneous orations, looked absolutely entranced.

With a wink for Ardashir and another for Henner, Faith delivered her punchline: "Even if it would have made life _slightly_ more exciting."

"Briefly," I snapped.

"Weellll, it doesn't _have _to be…."

Inured to her antics, Bazso didn't even bat an eye, although Pickett did scowl ferociously, holding me personally responsible for this stand-up comedy in the middle of a serious parley between serious gang leaders. On the other hand, Mylera had never been exposed to our crew dynamics, so to speak, and she inquired with morbid curiosity, "Doesn't Isha bring more entertainment into your life alive? Compared to the fleeting excitement you would derive from her death?"

Beside her, Xayah hid a groan and mouthed, _Don't _encourage_ her!_

It was too late. Putting one long, elegant fingertip to her lips, Faith donned a contemplative expression. "Thaaaaaat's a good point…." Then she giggled and pouted earnestly at one of the gang leaders I'd double-crossed. "But the excitement I'd derive from her death would be _immediate_."

"That's a good point," muttered Pickett, causing some of the other Lampblacks and Red Sashes to exchange smirks across the table.

So good to see that even former nemeses could bond over the entertainment value of my demise.

Catching my eye, Bazso gave me a tiny smile.

"Well," Ash announced in a valiant attempt to steer everyone back on track, "assassinating a faction leader won't be easy, so we'd better get started!" As we left the Lampblacks and Red Sashes to creak to their feet and pack up their belongings, he remarked _sotto voce_, "I need to update my mother on the imminent war in Crow's Foot. There will be a bountiful harvest for our operations – perhaps I should teach the Insect Kids the life essence extraction ritual."

I made a strangled noise, which only gave Faith an excuse to pound me on the back.

Ash just ignored both of us. "We have a lot of work to do."

* * *

And indeed we did.

The Crows as a gang had existed for over a century, running extortion rackets at the Docks as well as a string of gambling dens across Crow's Foot. In fact, the latter district had been named in their honor, if you wanted to call it that, and all operations there tithed either directly or indirectly to them. As a symbol of their authority, they made their headquarters in the old watchtower at the heart of the district, from which lofty perch they surveyed their domain.

More recently, however, the Crows had been plagued by a string of leadership woes that was slowly eroding their control of the districts. After Mardin ran the gang effectively for decades, he retired to open the Leaky Bucket before any young whippersnappers could murder him. He was succeeded by Roric, the ideal Doskvolian ward boss who ruled with an iron fist while remaining sufficiently dynamic to adapt to changes. But then he was killed by his young lieutenant Lyssa, who unfortunately had little leadership experience and even less of a long-term plan. It was she who had allowed Crow's Foot to degenerate into all-out warfare between the Lampblacks and Red Sashes. With every passing month, the chaos eroded the Crows' influence, although they continued to swagger about with their habitual arrogance, annoying all the newer, upstart gangs. (I didn't like having to move out of their way any more than the next scoundrel.)

Even more annoyingly, the one time I actually wanted to find them, the Crows contrived to make themselves remarkably scarce. Dying my hair dark brown and disguising myself as an Akorosi, I skulked around all their usual haunts without success. It took days before I came across three of them extorting a drug dealer, Bryl, on Cinder Street, a sight that afforded me no small amount of satisfaction. (Bryl and I had harbored a cordial hatred for each other ever since Bazso sent me to shake him down for a tardy tithe. I'd considered such make-work beneath my dignity as a swordswoman, while Bryl had considered being held at sword point by a pretty young woman to be far, far beneath what his masculine pride could tolerate.) Lounging against a streetlight, I prepared to let the scene play out.

"But I'm tellin' ye, I don' keep any slugs on me," the drug dealer was whining.

One of the Crows, a tall Severosi fellow in a tricorn hat and what resembled a scavenged Imperial Fleet uniform jacket, just sneered down at him. "And what are you suggesting?" he snorted, echoing my thoughts exactly. "That instead of demanding immediate cash payments from your customers, you have them open a line of credit at the Bank of Doskvol?"

"No, no," sniveled Bryl, rummaging through his pockets and turning them inside out in a comic display of poverty. "I don' have nuthin' on me."

"Hey, you there! What's the meaning of this?" bellowed a voice that every scoundrel and business owner in Crow's Foot knew intimately well.

Down the street pounded Bluecoat boots – our friendly local constabulary come to demand their share of the extorted sum. Stiffening, the Crows began to edge into the shadows.

Taking a leaf out of Ash's book, I swung into action. "Oh, officers!" I cried, scampering up to them. "Officers, I'm so glad to see you!"

Those were not words heard very often in Crow's Foot – particularly not by this pair.

Since I wasn't dressed nearly well enough to pull off my crewmate's favorite I'm-just-an-idiot-aristocrat-who-blundered-into-the-wrong-district wheeze, I whimpered, "My dog ran away! She's about yea big – " I waved my hands wildly, describing an animal that could range in size from a large rat to a small goat – "and she's sort of a darkish greyish brown, and she has a long tail…."

Running footsteps behind me plus the constables' impatient shuffle signaled the Crows' escape. A quick sideways glance showed that Bryl had also slithered back into his hole. Ah well. You couldn't have everything.

To buy the Crows even more time, I kept blathering, "Her name is Spot. She _sometimes_ comes when you call her, but usually she doesn't, not because she's dumb – she's really smart! – she just has this very definite personality…."

One of the constables finally took me by the shoulders and firmly moved me aside. "Excuse us, miss. We don't have time to look for runaway dogs."

Babbling apologies for wasting their valuable time, I waited for them to turn the corner. Then I set off after the Crows, whom I found in a pub celebrating their narrow escape. The tall Severosi recognized me instantly. "There she is!" he called cheerfully. "Our savior!" He waved me over to the bar and introduced himself as Skinner and his companions as Noggs and Stev. After they "bought" me a drink (i.e., recommended to the bartender that she offer a beer on the house to the young lady who saved them from the Bluecoats), we debated the merits of various ales until I artlessly mentioned my employment status, or lack thereof.

Not meeting my eyes, Noggs hedged, "Lyssa isn't really initiating any new Crows just now…."

"Is the membership full already?" I asked, not even needing to feign disappointment.

"Oh, no, no," Stev responded instantly. "There's no such thing as too _many_ Crows." (I was pretty sure Bazso, Mylera, and probably the Hive too disagreed on that point.)

Glaring at our neighbors until they conspicuously turned their backs and edged their stools aside to give us privacy, Skinner gestured for all of us to lean in. Quietly, he explained, "Lyssa and Bell – that's our second-in-command – have been holed up in the Crow's Nest for a few days now. Someone's planning an assault, we think."

My eyes widened at such a preposterous notion. "An assault? Who would dare assault the Crows?"

"_Exactly_." Noggs rolled his own eyes. "I say we show 'em we're not scared of anything."

Stev gave him a quelling look. "Still, it doesn't hurt to be careful, so most of the gang is currently in the tower to defend it if need be."

"Ah." I acted as if I were considering other employment options. Setting down my empty mug, I said, "Well, thanks for the drink – "

"Wait." Skinner put a hand on my arm to stop me from sliding off my stool. "You're quick and resourceful. We could use someone like you. Hang around unofficially for now, and once everything settles down, we'll get you initiated properly."

And that was how I joined my third Crow's Foot gang.


	52. Lyssa

Over the next week, I shadowed my new Crow friends so they could "show me the ropes," to use one of Noggs' nautical expressions. For the most part, we made the rounds of local businesses, both legal and illegal. As Noggs was a tall, burly fellow, Skinner usually assigned him to loom conspicuously in the background while the rest of us courteously requested the Crows' tithe. With him around, affairs stayed civil, so to speak.

Although his family had immigrated from the Dagger Isles generations ago and he didn't speak a word of their language (or maybe because of that), Noggs fancied himself a pirate in the tradition of his forebears. So when the mood struck, he swaggered around bellowing "Yar!" and "Avast me hearties!" while the rest of us groaned and pretended not to know him. ("Hey, who is that guy anyway?" "Who? Him? Never met him." "So…he isn't your enforcer?" "Nah, not if you hand over the tithe.")

Noggs also harbored for Lyssa the finest example of courtly love this side of the Cataclysm. After Stev helpfully arranged for a bed for me at their flophouse (which offered discount rates to Crows), I spent many happy evenings lolling on its front steps, listening to Noggs enumerate his fair lady's virtues. "She's undefeatable in single combat, you know," he sighed once while Stev, Skinner, and I rolled our eyes and passed a bottle of moonshine. "Give her a pistol and a dagger, and she can take anyone."

Leaning comfortably against Skinner's chest, Stev grinned and taunted, "_I_ heard she used to be a noble."

At that, I twitched. What was it about Crow's Foot that attracted so many ex-nobles? Disingenuously, I protested, "Nobles don't fight, do they? Don't they have all those bodyguards to do the fighting for them?"

"Not in the Dagger Isles, they don't!" And off Noggs went on a dramatic tale of fierce pirate queens who adorned their stolen naval coats with medals pried off the cold, dead bodies of Imperial admirals they defeated in single combat. I rather thought that he and Faith would get along.

After his fairytale finally wound to its gory end, I asked innocently, "But isn't Lyssa Akorosian?" Before the lockdown, I'd seen her around Crow's Foot, and what I remembered was a brown-eyed, pale-skinned young woman with close-cropped brown hair.

It was Stev who confirmed in his quiet, gentle way, "Yes, she was born into one of the minor noble families. But she fell into disgrace and got disowned. She never talks about it."

At that point, Skinner stirred restlessly, glanced at the position of the moon, and reminded us, "Patrol duty in the morning. Get to bed, all of you."

From him, I had learned that the Crows normally maintained a strict division of labor. But with most of the gang holed up in the tower, the system had broken down quite thoroughly, and so the four of us also pulled shifts guarding the streets around the Crow's Nest. Frustratingly, none of us were ever allowed inside: Instead, Lyssa's lower-ranked lieutenants came into the courtyard to deliver our orders.

"Will I ever get to meet her?" I asked the others on a different evening. "Noggs makes her sound like a fairytale princess _and _an epic villain at the same time."

"But in the Dagger Isles, those are the same thing!" he joked.

One arm draped around Stev's shoulders, Skinner swigged from the whiskey bottle I'd swiped on our way home (I was subtly trying to expand their palates). "Of course you will," he promised. "As soon as things go back to normal, we'll take you to meet Lyssa and get you properly inducted."

"But not before that?" I pressed as hard as I dared.

"Unlikely," he replied flatly. "Lyssa's not taking any chances just now."

And there went any hope of wrangling a private audience in which I could broker a three-way peace deal or just convince Lyssa to flee Doskvol.

* * *

Between my Crow duties and off-duty carousing, it was all I could do to sneak back to Coalridge every couple days to update Ash and Faith. When I confessed that it was well-nigh impossible for me to reconnoiter inside the Crow's Nest or lure Lyssa out of it, my crewmates sent in the heavy reinforcements.

For once, it was Faith who invited the Insect Kids into the common room. With Sleipnir prancing at their heels and begging for treats, the five tiptoed in and lined up against a wall as if awaiting execution.

Their fear was not lost on Faith. Prowling back and forth in front of them in her best army inspector impersonation, she proclaimed, "Well, little morsels, you've probably been waiting for the other shoe to drop. And now is the time!"

"Other shoe?" Mantis piped up, spoiling her dramatic pacing.

Beetle elbowed him. "It's a figure of speech," she explained importantly while Faith grimaced at the interruption.

Catching sight of her expression, Spider quickly shushed both of them.

Once she had their full attention again, she continued, "We have a job for you. It may be somewhat…dangerous."

Ash made a gurgling noise in his throat, as if to choke back a protest.

Pretending she hadn't heard him, Faith explained, "We need eyes and ears in Crow's Foot, and _delicious_ little morsels like yourselves seem to be the perfect sort to investigate – " Catching their puzzled blinks, she toned down the vocabulary: "To go and look around."

"We can do that," Spider agreed warily. "We're good at looking around."

"Good. Now here's the challenge: Crow's Foot has an orphanage, and many gangs employ – that is, _use_ – orphans. So on the one hand, you'll fit right in. Pretend you're one of them, beg for food, pick pockets, do whatever it is orphans do." She gave a casual shrug, as if she couldn't care less whether they got nabbed by the Bluecoats for petty theft. "On the other hand, the local orphans might be protective of their turf…."

Beetle, the cleverest of the lot, cocked her head at me inquiringly. I gave her a reassuring nod and made a mental note to teach them hand signals once this was all over.

"So," Faith finished, "this is the nature of the task: We want you to go to Crow's Foot, ingratiate yourselves with the local orphans, and simultaneously investigate the large tower in the center of the district. The Crow's Nest, I believe it's called. Let us know if there are large groups of people entering or leaving the tower."

She couldn't have confused them more thoroughly than if she'd started reciting classical Hadrathi verse, but they all bobbed their heads gamely. Catching their bewilderment, Ash shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. _Peace_, I signed at him. _We'll translate later._

"Meanwhile, my dear friend Cricket here – " Faith pointed at the little ghost, whom I'd tried unsuccessfully to bar from the common room on the grounds that she was also technically underage (or at least had been when she died) and hence should be subject to the ban. "Cricket will be hanging out with you while she carries out her own tasks. She may need one of your bodies from time to time. Try not to be too alarmed."

Redirecting his frustration to an easier target, Ash threatened the ghost, "If anything happens to them…."

Hovering right beside Faith, Cricket bared her teeth and chirped smugly, "Faith wouldn't letcha."

Faith, of course, immediately dashed those hopes. She stage-whispered into the ghost's ear, "Of _course_ I would. But let's not have this discussion in front of the children." To the Insect Kids, she sang, "Well, toodle-loo! Come home in time for dinner!"

_That_ part they understood.

* * *

Ash and I walked the children over, practically falling over each other in our rush to impart advice for surviving Crow's Foot. Although meeting with Bazso and Mylera to request safe conduct for them was out of the question, I did my best to keep an eye on them as I made the rounds with Skinner and his squad. Meanwhile, Ash cast realism to the winds and demanded that they check in with him every two hours.

Hampered by his overprotectiveness, the Insect Kids tried their hardest to ingratiate themselves with the local street children. Unfortunately, their Six Towers upbringing had prepared them much better for dealing with ghosts than gangs and they were, as Noggs would put it, "fish out of water." The most useful piece of intel they collected was that there were no large groups leaving the tower, although Crow messengers of both the human and avian varieties came and went at all hours of the day.

Cricket, on the other hand, proved her worth and more. Besides hovering near the children and possessing the younger ones a couple times to remove them from dangerous situations, she snuck into the lower levels of the tower. There, she discovered that the Crows employed no Whispers, an indication of either lamentable hubris or oversight or both. Unfortunately, a strong ward installed by Roric or maybe even Mardin Gull blocked off the top, where Lyssa's office and living quarters were located.

That was Ash's cue to disguise himself as a deliveryman. Like me, he also couldn't get into the tower, but from the courtyard he was able to attune to the ghost field and inspect the ward. "It's very old," he told Faith and me at our next meeting. "They haven't renewed it in decades."

"Sloppy, sloppy." She clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

"The ward appears to be generated by a circle of runes inscribed on the floor. _Inside_ the ward, of course. They're not quite _that_ sloppy. Isha, why don't we go in as messengers and blow up the runes? I've been studying these Crows. Imitating their mannerisms is simple: All I have to do is act super arrogant."

While that was true for many of them, I thought of Stev with a pang of guilt. "How do we blow up arcane runes?" I asked to distract myself.

Ash redirected the question to our resident Whisper, who shrugged. "While exploding them sounds…almost exciting, it might be enough to disrupt them temporarily. You could smuggle in a device or something, trigger it, and bring down the wards. Then I'll scare Lyssa out with arcane assistance and you two can assassinate her. Something like that. It should work. Probably."

"You think Lyssa will be scared of a few ghosts?" Ash inquired doubtfully.

Obviously considering that question a waste of time, Faith fended off further inquiry with ye olde mental dictionary: "These ghosts are fierce and ferocious fiends. If they can't force our fellow Crow to flee, what else could make her a fugitive?"

Before _we_ fled her presence, we agreed that Ash should commission a Coalridge tinkerer he knew to build an electroplasmic pulse bomb. The man's first attempt was a complete dud, but Ash and Faith bought him the appropriate supplies, and on the second try, he produced a small device that was easy to both use and conceal. One of the Insect Kids – probably Beetle, although I never confirmed that – reverse-pickpocketed me and slipped it to me for safekeeping.

* * *

On the morning of the score, I faked a fever and bad cough and burrowed miserably under my blanket. Skinner dug me out, felt my forehead, frowned at its clamminess, and ordered me to stay in bed. "Rest. We'll bring you supper," he promised, to which I gave a weak nod with my eyes squeezed shut. As soon as he, Stev, and Noggs disappeared around the corner, I crept out of the flophouse and bribed a runner to deliver new orders that would keep them occupied at the Docks for the rest of the day.

Then, as planned, I met Ash near one of the Crows' courier routes. Out of sight of their patrols, we waylaid two messengers, stripped one for a uniform for Ash, and hid their unconscious bodies behind a stack of crates. Thus disguised as one trainee Crow and one Crow messenger, we jogged up to Lyssa's stronghold, where I gave the guards the correct passcode. "Where's Lewis?" one of them asked, puzzled but not yet suspicious.

Shoving his face right into the Crow's, Ash hissed, "We have an urgent message for Lyssa from a Crow's Foot citizen. Do you really want her to find out that you delayed it because you stalk your friends?"

That they most certainly did not. Stepping back, they waved us through the door. Just for good measure, Ash mesmerized them into forgetting all about us (at least until the next time they saw us, which was hopefully never).

Inside the old watchtower, a narrow staircase, its stone steps worn smooth by centuries of booted feet, spiraled around and around all the way up the Crow's Nest. That ascent was the most nerve-wracking climb I'd ever made. The stairs themselves were lit only by bars of moonlight that fell through arrow slits in the walls. Every time my eyes adjusted to the darkness, we'd reach another landing and my night vision would be killed by bright torches, in whose glare loomed guards bristling with weapons. More guards were posted at regular intervals along the staircase, which was barely wide enough for two people to pass if both turned sideways and hugged the walls. Dazed and half-blind, Ash and I grunted greetings at the Crows and kept climbing. Now and then, I caught a glimpse of Cricket flitting in and out of the arrow slits, monitoring our progress and presumably reporting back to Faith.

An eternity later, we finally reached the last landing, where another Crow guarded the door to Lyssa's office. It was then that Ash's persuasive skills failed us at the worst possible moment. Unimpressed by his bluster about urgent intel and Lyssa's wrath, the Crow said brusquely, "I'll take it to her."

_Knock him out_, Ash signed under cover of fishing through his pockets for the message.

I palmed a dagger and reversed it, concealing it inside my sleeve.

At my tiny blink, Ash flourished a piece of paper. "Here it is! Make sure she reads this _immediately_!"

When the Crow turned to take it, I rapped him sharply on the back of the head with my hilt. He crumpled. Grabbing his arms, Ash and I slowly eased him to the floor out of sight of the doorway. While I kept watch at the top of the stairs, Ash peeled off his messenger's uniform and threw on the guard's vest and belt.

"Cricket!" he whispered.

She drifted through an arrow slit, head cocked expectantly. "Faith said to tell you that she's corralled the most vicious ghosts she could find, but she's not overly impressed by the quality of specters in this district." Belying Faith's assessment, the little ghost shuddered.

"That's fine," Ash replied in a low, distracted voice. "Possess this guard and take a post a few steps down."

We gave her a moment to obey, then Ash laid his gloved hand on the doorknob. _Ready?_ he signed.

_Ready._

Just before he turned the knob, he cautioned, _If things get desperate, don't look at me_.

_Okay_, I signed back.

He twisted hard and pushed, and the door creaked open to reveal Lyssa's office – if you could call it that. The top level of the watchtower resembled nothing so much as a stone gazebo. Although thick gray columns mostly blocked the rain, the wind that whistled shrilly between them threatened to extinguish the braziers heating the space. All around us lay heaps of what I could only describe as loot – overflowing chests of gold coins and silver slugs, bolts of silk brocade and Iruvian rugs half-unrolling across the floor, stacks of oil paintings. Somewhat at random, I thought that now I understood why Noggs worshipped Lyssa.

A group of perhaps ten Crows were huddled around a desk in the dead center of the room, obviously in the middle of a strategic meeting. At the interruption, they straightened and parted, and I got my first close look at the leader of the gang that had run Crow's Foot for a century.

She was young, a few years older than I at most. Over her man's haircut, she wore a jaunty pirate hat, complete with a tattered feather and a silver skull-and-crossbones brooch pinned to the brim. As she shifted and leaned forward, a metallic blaze nearly blinded me. The front of her double-breasted military greatcoat was covered with a jumble of medals from all branches of the Imperial Armed Forces, plus some civilian associations for good measure. Perhaps to a romantic like Noggs, she embodied the warrior queens of yore, but to me, she looked just like another scared young woman trying to act tough.

Before I could decide how to react, Ash plowed right through her lieutenants and caught himself on the edge of her desk, panting, "It's happening! They're coming! The Red Sashes and the Lampblacks are coming!"

His words provoked an uproar among the Crow leaders. Lyssa's second-in-command Henry Bell, a stocky middle-aged man in a scavenged naval uniform, whirled towards the open spaces between the columns and roared, "Fire!"

Guns drawn, several Crows dashed to the edge of the balcony, crouched behind the columns, and surveyed the buildings around the tower. Indeed, several small fires flickered on nearby rooftops. Briefly, Moth's figure was silhouetted against the flames, but a hand reached out and yanked her down before any of the Crows could aim at her.

In contrast to her lieutenants, Lyssa hadn't moved. Ignoring the commotion, she scrutinized Ash with cold, hard eyes.

_Some help here? _he signed at me reproachfully.

I stepped forward. "It's true. The Lampblacks and Red Sashes have made their move. Skinner sent me to report," I told Lyssa respectfully, squashing a pang at the betrayal and promising myself that I'd check on my friends after the score.

No one so much as glanced at me.

Instead, Lyssa continued to stare at Ash – or rather, at the vest and belt he had stolen from the guard outside. "I don't know him," she snapped in Bell's direction. "Kill him."

In a flash, a dirk appeared in Bell's hand. With shocking speed, he lunged at Ash, who twisted sideways at the last second so the blade only sliced him across the chest instead of punching right through it. Bright red blood welled up and soaked the stolen vest.

Vicious, almost inhuman hatred twisted Ash's face. "This is the last mistake you'll ever make," he pronounced, the venom in his voice commanding all of the Crows' attention.

Dirk at the ready, Bell sank into a defensive crouch.

While all eyes were on the two of them, I slipped my hand into my pocket, palmed the electroplasmic device, and flicked the switch. Instantly, a silent, invisible pulse blasted through the room, whipping the papers on Lyssa's desk and nearly blowing her hat right off. All around me, Crows dropped their weapons and clapped their hands to their ears.

And then it was over. The arcane buzz that had niggled at the edges of my mind since I entered the room cut out.

In the deafening silence that followed, Lyssa leaped to her feet, whipped out a pistol, and shot at me at point-blank range.

I jumped out of the way – right as a swarm of specters poured between the columns. With no more than a contemptuous glance for Bell, Ash threw back his head and raised both arms. Waving them wildly like a conductor in an orchestra pit, he pretended to direct the ghosts. Eyes wide, Bell actually straightened up and edged away. Meanwhile, howling as fiendishly and ferociously as Faith had promised, her ghosts swooped through the room in patterns calculated to sow maximum fear.

With no Whisper of their own to counter the onslaught, and pitifully little arcane experience relative to, say, denizens of Six Towers, the Crows scattered. Some huddled behind piles of loot, while others scrambled for the door, tripping over rugs and knocking over paintings in their panic. One after another glowed blue, crumpled, and lay still while the ghosts inside them devoured their life essence.

One of the largest specters I'd ever seen hovered between a pair of columns, surveying the carnage through malevolent eye holes. All of a sudden, it reared up, hissed – and shot directly at Lyssa. Its ragged edges brushed through a Crow's arm, and the man doubled over in pain. "Roric!" he croaked.

The ghost of the murdered ward boss sucked out his life force almost casually, then shrieked a terrible, hair-raising screech and tried to burrow into Lyssa. Ramming an electroplasmic cartridge into her pistol, she fired a quick succession of shots that held him at bay. Hissing and spitting, he circled her while she coolly rotated in place and followed him with her gun.

In that moment, I had to admit that Lyssa was truly magnificent. _She's unbeatable in single combat, you know_, Noggs had said_. Give her a pistol and a dagger, and she can take anyone_.

For the first time, I understood Ash's regret when we killed the Hadrakin.

Torn, hand hovering over my sword hilt, I danced around the edges of Lyssa and Roric's duel. It was Roric who decided for me: Sensing my presence, he whipped around and screamed, warning me off.

A very familiar sense of vast, insatiable hunger began to compress the room. In my vision, the columns fuzzed and the floor buckled, and a booming voice commanded, _Consume them all_.

Unbearable terror nearly flattened me, but thanks to Ash's warning, I'd already "battened down the hatches," and so I forced it back.

But the Crows all broke.

With a triumphant shriek, Roric drilled into Lyssa's chest. She stiffened as if electrocuted, then spun on her heel and sprinted for the balcony.

"No!" rasped one Crow.

Half-crawling, half-lunging forward, he tackled her around the ankles and knocked her to the floor while she screeched and clawed wildly at his face. Fighting free, she scrambled for the edge on her hands and knees, but he desperately grabbed her boot and hung on with all his might.

I drifted a few steps in their direction. In front of me hung the image of Skinner promising to bring me supper this evening. Stev arranging a bed for me at their flophouse, unbidden. Noggs making me laugh. So few people ever made me laugh.

Through Lyssa's throat, Roric howled with insane rage.

I saw Lyssa in her ridiculous pirate costume, just another scared young woman trying to make a place for herself after her family kicked her out.

And I saw Bazso's and Mylera's calm, implacable eyes when they ordered us to kill her to seal the truce that would end gang warfare on the streets of Crow's Foot.

I had come this far. What was one more death?

As if in a dream, I felt my icy fingers brush and then grip the revolver at my waist. I felt my arm rise and point the gun at the back of the Crow hanging on to Lyssa's foot. And I felt the little click of the gun cocking, the resistance of the trigger.

I squeezed.

The blast and recoil jolted me back to myself.

The Crow cried out and tumbled forward across Lyssa, blood staining the back of his shirt. She scrambled out from under his dead weight, crawled to the edge of the balcony, and vanished over it without a word.

I sprinted to where she'd disappeared and stared down. Far below, a tiny figure in fluffy skirts skipped up to a crumpled body and poked it with a lightning hook. The body didn't move. In the distance, a bell at Bellweather Crematorium tolled.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of motion – and then everything vanished into a bright, blue blaze.


	53. The Coal Warehouse

A white-hot sheet of fire ripped through me.

Something inside my mind shrieked, shriveled up, and flamed into nothingness.

I opened my eyes to find myself curled fetus-like next to a column, a couple feet from the edge of the balcony and empty space. Over me swayed a charred, bloody, convulsing Ash. One of his hands braced against the column, while the other clutched his lightning hook. It trembled, and little arcs of electricity darted out of the loop.

When I tried to uncurl, I discovered that I barely had the energy to twitch. "What…happened…?" I mumbled, moving my lips with great effort. My throat felt raw, and the root of my tongue ached.

"Yougot – possessed." Ash's voice squeaked out of his lungs in odd, jerky gasps. "You – werebabbling – ina – non- non- non-human language." His knees buckled and he collapsed next to me on the cold stone floor, his eyelids drooping shut.

Forcing myself to roll over and scrabble into a sitting position, I propped myself against the column and surveyed the room. Every other human in sight was glowing electric blue and gibbering or lying deathly still. Through the door throbbed the echo of boots pounding up the stairs. "We need to get out of here," I muttered.

All of a sudden, blue light flared in the doorway. Ghostly shrieks and human screams erupted in the stairwell: Faith's spectral slaves fending off the Crows to buy us time.

Ash's eyelashes fluttered. "Youhave…climbinggear…right?" he breathed.

I patted my waist, where I'd coiled the rope, to reassure myself that I hadn't lost it. "Yes."

He tried to stand and failed. "Carryme…down?"

"Of course." While he crawled to a pile of Lyssa's loot and scavenged some silk scarves, I wedged my grappling hook between two stones in the floor and tested it. I thought it should hold our weight. With my help, Ash tied himself to my back, and I carefully lowered us over the balcony.

But I hadn't accounted for how much life essence the ghost had drained from me.

My hands slipped.

With a strangled cry, I grabbed for the rope, but Ash's weight threw me off-balance and I missed – and then we were freefalling down, down, down, towards the tiny dot of Lyssa's body.

Apparently, the poetic justice we wrought applied to us too.

"Faith!" I tried to scream, but the wind carried away my voice. "Cricket!" Waving my arms, I flailed wildly at the wall. My fingertips brushed stone, and for a second, I thought I'd found a handhold – but then they slipped off a patch of moss and we were falling again. "Faith!" I cried. "Faith, help!"

The courtyard was getting closer and closer.

_I'm not ready to die! Grandfather – _

All of a sudden, the entire world turned icy and blue, as if I'd tumbled into a jelly dessert. For half a second, howls of pain nearly deafened me. And then we were back in open air, falling just a tiny bit slower.

"What was that?" Ash shouted into my ear. His arms were wrapped around my neck in a stranglehold.

I gasped, "I don't know – "

We plunged into a mountain of bright blue gelatinous forms that writhed and oozed electroplasm as we ripped through them. Little by little, we began to decelerate.

That was just as well, because that was when we hit a pile of human bodies with a horrible _crunch_.

"What – ?" I didn't even know if Ash or I or both of us cried out.

Beneath us, possessed Crows moaned and rolled weakly aside, breaking our fall and gently lowering us to the ground. At last, we came to a stop on the flagstones of the courtyard, surrounded by a ring of corpses.

Still tangled together by Lyssa's scarves, we lay there, stunned and limp.

A cheerful face framed by long, platinum-blonde hair filled my vision, upside down. "Isha! Ash! What a pleasant surprise for you to drop in on me like this!"

All I could do was moan.

* * *

Still gloating over the success of her horrible, horrible plan, Faith untied the scarves and started to help us up – but recoiled when she saw Ash's blood.

"I don't want to ruin another pink dress," she clucked. "Here, Isha, why don't you sling his arm over your shoulders like _this_. Then you can support him until we find Sawbones."

Too exhausted to object, I swayed a little under Ash's weight but managed to stay upright.

Faith nodded approvingly. "Lyssa, by the way, is dead. She's in this vial." She waggled a spirit bottle at us.

Ash stared at it blankly. I couldn't summon the energy to _care_.

Skipping ahead, Faith led the way to the Lampblacks' headquarters, where she assured us Sawbones had prepared a triage station. As I staggered along behind her, I dully noted the thugs in black overcoats who were streaming the opposite way. Despite their rush, they parted around our little crew and gave us a wide berth (which, now that I thought about it, was yet another nautical term). Bazso was nowhere in sight, but that was all right. I wasn't sure I wanted to see him just then anyway.

When we finally tottered up to the coal warehouse, Sawbones was leaning against the door, chugging whiskey straight from the bottle. Entirely unsurprised by our state, he took one last swig, plunked the bottle on a crate, and shouted over his shoulder, "Danfield! We got our first!"

A skinny, nervous young man in a white coat scampered outside and skidded to a halt when he saw us.

"Yeah, it's going to be like this all night. I mean, not exactly like this, but kind of like this." Rolling up his sleeves, Sawbones jerked his chin at the young man. "This here's Danfield. He's a student at Charterhall. Bazso thought I'd need some assistance."

"I'm a second-year at Charterhall University," Danfield specified hesitantly, as if he thought we might reject his services if he didn't provide the proper credentials. "I'm studying natural biology in the School of Natural and Unnatural Philosophy."

"That's okay," Faith consoled him before she wailed at our usual doctor, "Sawbones! Sawbones! It's terrible! I'm horribly, horribly injured! I have a sunburn, and it just won't go away!" Keeping one eye on the new kid and switching seamlessly to her most bored tone, she added as an afterthought, "I suppose you should probably take a look at my comrades too. Eventually."

Poor Danfield goggled at her, unsure whether to take her seriously.

"Ugh, we're _dying_ over here," snapped Ash, who was obviously in no mood for theatrics but hesitated to vent his frustration on his savior. "We need _urgent_ medical assistance – preferably not sawing our bones off, if that's what they teach at Charterhall."

"Help them inside," Sawbones ordered his new assistant, who looked too flustered to take offense at Ash's words.

While we were busy planning and executing our score, the Lampblacks had converted the warehouse's entire central space into an infirmary. Two operating tables waited just inside the door, and under the grimy steel girders marched rows and rows of cots.

Sawbones directed us to the back corner, where he ordered, "Lie down. Let me have a look." I was only too happy to obey, while Ash didn't exactly have a choice. "Which one of you is worse hurt?" the doctor asked, looking between the two of us.

"Him," I said at the same time that Ash said, "Me. I was electrocuted, I was sliced, I have visions of the Sun – _and_ I fell off a tower."

Danfield choked back a strangled gurgle.

"It wasn't even to catch a kitten this time," Faith supplied for his benefit. Perching on the cot next to mine, she propped her chin on her hands and observed us all with amusement.

"Here." Sawbones shoved the whiskey bottle in my direction. Struggling half upright, I took a grateful swig, dulling the pain while the doctors sewed up Ash's wound and palpated his belly to assess the extent of internal bleeding. "I can do absolutely nothing for your visions of the Sun," Sawbones informed Ash at the end. "I'm a street doctor, not one of those fancy Whisper physicians."

"Danfield?" Ash asked, his voice stronger now.

The student blushed and shook his head, shamefaced. "We haven't gotten to that part yet," he mumbled. "Maybe next year."

He and Sawbones repeated the palpation on me, determined that I wasn't dying, and proclaimed that they could do absolutely nothing to replace the life essence the ghost had drained. "Given enough time, your body will regenerate on its own," Danfield advised.

By then, the first injured Lampblacks and even Red Sashes were stumbling through the door, calling for help. With a firm "_Rest_, both of you," Sawbones hurried to meet them. His rather-more-legitimate assistant ticked off all the boxes on his mental checklist for examinations and then trailed after him.

I was just dozing off when Ash's voice demanded, "Where's Spider? Someone should go find Spider."

"Not me," Faith informed him, stretching out full-length on her cot, folding her hands behind her head, and shutting her eyes. "I'm too injured to move."

"Is there anyone else…?" Ash surveyed the room, trying to catch the eye of one of the uninjured Lampblacks.

It took some time, but eventually he managed to convince one of them to put word out on the street that the Insect Kids should report to the coal warehouse. All five appeared at once, Sleipnir gamely hopping at their heels. Although the children lingered fearfully in the doorway, Sleipnir streaked across the infirmary as soon as he saw me.

"Hey! What was that?" cried Danfield, spinning around with a scalpel in hand.

"That's just Isha's dog," snarled a waiting Lampblack who had her hand pressed over a bullet hole. "Unless you can regenerate legs, ignore it."

Wide-eyed, shaking his head, Danfield turned back to his patient.

Thus unmolested by notions of infirmary hygiene, Sleipnir jumped onto my cot and took up a protective stance. I petted his head weakly, and he licked my hand.

Loudly, Faith whispered, "Your dog might be developing a taste for blood! I'm afraid it's going to devour Ash! He's in terrible danger!"

I just petted Sleipnir some more. After getting half-eaten by her ghost, I didn't have the energy to deal with her. Disappointed, she settled back down.

Rolling onto his side and propping himself up on one elbow, Ash called to the children, "It's all right! Come over here!" Obediently, they started to tiptoe into the coal warehouse, hugging the walls and sneaking peeks at the gang members, who were too busy to pay them any attention. While he kept an eye on their halting progress, Ash said to me, "Thanks for getting us out of there, Isha. Next time, maybe we should stay further away from trouble."

I wholeheartedly agreed. "Next time, maybe we should come up with a better plan for getting out of a tower."

A quarter of the way into the room, the children bunched up like ducklings when Sawbones hurtled past.

Absently, still observing them, Ash remarked, "I've heard of this substance called 'float oil.' I think we really need to invest in emergency samples. Next time."

"That's a good idea." It certainly beat falling _through_ a bunch of ghosts and then _onto_ a heap of human beings. At the memory, I shuddered, and Sleipnir licked me harder.

"Don't I get credit for _my_ incredible ideas?" protested Faith, shooting up on her cot with an injured pout. "What about that conclave of corpulent corpses that I collected for you to collapse upon?"

"It was…." Ash trailed off, searching for the appropriate adjective.

"Certainly effective," I finished drily.

Ash did me one better. "Hauntingly beautiful, Faith," he said, a faint, rueful smirk twisting his lips.

"_Effective_," I repeated, more emphatically this time.

Faith tipped her head all the way to one side and reconsidered her last alliteration. "Well, I guess technically they weren't dead, so does that make them a bountiful band of bodies?"

Ash actually chuckled at that. "A _baleful_ band of bodies, perhaps."

"Mmmm, that's _good_," Faith marveled. "I _like_ you, Ash."

"Oh, Faith," he sighed. "I'm glad you're all right."

I just put my pillow over my face, although I removed it again at Faith's trumpet, "Here's our pack of orphans!"

Timidly, the children crowded into the space between Ash's and my cots. Locust immediately clambered onto mine, jostling me until Moth snapped at him to behave, and wrapped his arms around Sleipnir.

Looking from one to another, Ash asked the children, "Well, what did you think of your first score?"

"Oh, wait, sorry!" Faith interrupted. "I believe the correct terminology is an _outfit_ of orphans, not a pack."

"Is it?" asked Sawbones over his shoulder. Since Danfield was darting back and forth between the two surgery tables, operating on two patients at once, Sawbones was stitching up the arm of a Lampblack who lay on a nearby cot.

"It is now," she informed him, then reconsidered. "Or, how about oodles? Oodles of orphans sounds pretty good."

"Well," Sawbones replied wryly, "you certainly have oodles of orphans now. An entire orphanage's worth, if I heard correctly."

"They run an orphanage?" Danfield asked from across the room, aghast.

"Yep," said Sawbones. He emphatically snipped off the thread. "All set," he told the Lampblack. "Get more bandages from the storeroom. We're running low."

As the Lampblack sat up and tested his arm, Ash looked at the Insect Kids, who were gaping at the man's bloody sutures. "Report. How was your run?" he repeated. Softening a little at their petrified stares, he soothed, "It will get better. Yes, there are fights – "

"We know," murmured Spider, very carefully not looking in Faith's direction.

"But we're not normally involved in quite this way," Ash reassured them. "You did well, to still be here. Did you run into any trouble?"

Cringing as if she feared a beating, Moth whispered, "So, we…we kept our heads down and mostly watched."

"And set fires!" Beetle reminded her. "To 'distract the Crows,' like Mr. Slane said."

"Your timing was good," Ash praised. "And what about the ritual?"

There was a little shuffle, and then Spider produced a filthy burlap bag, which he handed reverently to Ash. It clinked.

Ash undid the top to reveal little glass vials that glowed weakly. Even though the children had clearly struggled with the life essence extraction ritual, he nodded his approval. "We will get these to my mother and give you your reward, as appropriate. There is always a value in services well done, and for the rest of the week, your allowances will be doubled."

Grins broke out on the children's faces, and they chirped out a chorus of "Thank you, sir!"

Having thus encouraged them, Ash proceeded to lead them through a postmortem of the score and to critique their technique "so you can do even better next time." Chin in her hands, Faith actually watched the entire lesson with rapt attention. At the end, Ash inquired offhandedly, "Have we told you that you'll be getting some new friends soon?"

The children shook their heads. "No, sir," Spider answered for all of them.

"Ah. Well, you will. We seem to have come into possession of – what's it called, Isha?"

"Strathmill House," I supplied.

"Yes. Strathmill House. Have you heard of it?"

"It's that fancy orphanage in Crow's Foot," said Beetle slowly. "Miss Yara suggested we go there…." She darted a sidelong glance at me, obviously wondering if I'd planned to get rid of them all along.

Missing or perhaps mistaking the cause of her anxiety, Ash promised, "It's going to be quite a bit fancier soon. The orphans there are good, but not as good as you…." And he rambled on about Strathmill House, its matron, and its inmates until he ran out of energy.

The children gazed somberly at him and did their best to absorb all these changes.

At some point during the night, Cricket appeared as well. Naturally, the first thing the little ghost did was attach herself to Faith and demand electroplasm. "Patience, dear," chided the Whisper, petting her absently. "The electroplasm will appear in good time. Although – if you have a particular request – I hear Isha over there is quite tasty. Isha, can you come over here for a second?"

I didn't even twitch an eyeball in her direction.

I did, however, put the pillow back over my head.

* * *

Over the next day or so, the Crows' centuries-long rule came to an end. As stipulated in the Tangletown parley, the Lampblacks and Red Sashes consolidated control of Crow's Foot and the Docks with Bazso as ward boss of the former, and Mylera the latter. To my relief, they didn't slaughter all the Crows; most of the rank and file saw which way the wind was blowing, surrendered, and switched sides, swelling each gang to twenty-odd members.

Although I pestered every Lampblack and Red Sash who staggered into the infirmary, none of them had seen Skinner, Stev, or Noggs.


	54. A New World Order

While Crow's Foot subsided into a cautiously optimistic peace, Ash and I lay in our cots, fretting over how we were missing this chance to influence the new world order. Although Bazso stopped by my bedside on his flying visits to headquarters, he refused to discuss politics lest it worry me and slow my recovery (as if!), and Mylera never came at all. Isolated from the gang leaders, all Ash and I could do was harass the doctors for news and talk in circles with our fellow inmates. Once he felt a little better, Ash entertained the entire infirmary of equally bored scoundrels by holding classes for the Insect Kids.

Namely, he was training them to act as effective Skulks – and to parse complicated sentence structures in the process. At one point, he explained (to general chuckles and groans), "You'll deliver messages, create distractions, scout, and otherwise support us while we carry out the main mission."

By then, the children had figured out how to handle Ash and his vocabulary. Spider automatically referred to me: "Miss?"

I translated, "You'll help us on scores. You'll do things like what you did this time."

"Ah." To the amusement of the gang members around us, all the children nodded sagely. Spider asked, "Mister Slane, what should we do today?"

Ash pondered the question, then concluded regretfully, "I don't believe we have any work at the present. At least, not work you are capable of addressing. Here, go buy yourselves a treat." And he pushed some slugs at the children, who scampered off in search of _anything_ sweet. That done, he turned to our presumably more capable crewmate. "Faith, Faith, Faith."

"Aaaash, dear?" she inquired lazily from the cot she'd commandeered. Goodness knew why she insisted on staying in the infirmary – Sawbones, Danfield, and every last patient would have loved to kick her out.

"Faith, since you seem to be the only one who can leave this building at the moment, given our current injuries – "

Outraged that anyone might try to outdo her at literally anything, she squealed, "I'm very sunburned, I'll have you know! Look at how pink my skin is!"

A couple nearby Lampblacks pulled their blankets over their heads, muttering about how Sawbones and his fancy new assistant had better discharge them _soon_. A Red Sash groaned and hauled herself out of bed for a bathroom run.

Ash, however, didn't miss a beat. "And it looks radiant on your being."

"Awww!" Faith beamed and preened.

After giving her a minute to savor this triumph, Ash returned to the main topic. "Perhaps you have some way of dealing with the fact that we just overthrew the leader of a reasonably mid-tier organization in broad starlight."

Testing and drawing out each word, she asked, "Aaaash, are you saying that your haggard soul hates the heat that we have hoarded?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a couple more inmates decide that standing in line for the bathroom was a lot more appealing than staying within earshot of Faith.

"Oh, Faith," sighed Ash, noticing the same phenomenon. "Yes, something very much like that. Can you reduce our heat?"

"For you, Ash, anything!"

Leaving a sequined pink cushion in the center of her cot to "keep you company and remind you of me while I'm away," she bounced off to track down the remaining Crows.

* * *

Word on the street held that the last, die-hard dregs of the gang – all six of them – had fought their way out of Crow's Foot and taken refuge in Charhallow. Proving her capableness, Faith systematically located their flophouses and accosted each in turn. Since Bazso and Mylera were taking credit for the hit, she dressed up as a Red Sash and told Henry Bell that it was the Lampblacks who had killed Lyssa. Then she posed as a Lampblack to "Isha's dear friends, oh, what were their names? Skinner, Stev, and Noggs?" and accused the Red Sashes of murder.

"They're alive?" I interrupted at this point. "They're okay?"

"Alive, yes…. But 'okay' is such an imprecise descriptor," she protested slyly. "For example, are you referring to their physical, mental, emotional, or spiritual states?"

"Any. All."

Something about my tone convinced her to ease off (a bit, anyway), and she gave a little shrug. "They've _never_ been better. I explained that we know where they live, and wouldn't it be so _very_ unfortunate if something _horrible_ happened to you while you're at home, given how powerful we are now that we've taken over your turf? But we understand that there might be relocation costs while you adapt to your new lives, so here's a fraction of a coin to make your lives a _little_ better in these trying times."

"Did they _take_ it?" I demanded. I couldn't picture Noggs accepting charity from anyone who was even tangentially responsible for Lyssa's death.

"Of _course_ they did! They fell at my feet, clutching the purses to their heaving bosoms and sobbing in gratitude. I think some of them even left lipstick marks on my satin slippers." Stretching out her legs, Faith pretended to examine her boots.

Relieved into tolerance, I played along – "Don't worry, your slippers look just fine" – and ignored her cry of, "Isha, you say the sweetest things!"

Even if they'd never forgive me, at least my friends had survived.

* * *

Meanwhile, egged on by Faith, the other inmates were beginning to tease me about how _very often_ Bazso stopped by the infirmary for someone who was supposedly busy establishing himself as the ward boss of Crow's Foot. Although his visits were a hopeful sign, I opted to reserve judgment until I could ask him in private whether he'd finished "thinking about things." My chance came at last when Sawbones grudgingly gave me a semi-clean bill of health and liberated me. On my way out the door, I sent Moth to apprise Bazso of the development, and before I'd limped to the edge of the district, she caught up with a note inviting me to dinner in Charterhall.

"Will they have candles and roses, miss? And them musical ing-stroo-ments you put under your chin?" Moth asked dreamily. Even if I hadn't taken the children to the theater yet, I'd explained the concept, and she was quite taken with the idea of dedicated music-makers. (Both the musicians and the instruments.) "Charterhall is super fancy, isn't it?"

Given that the restaurant Bazso had picked lay just across the canal from Crow's Foot, there was a limit to how posh it could be – although it would certainly be fancier than the Leaky Bucket. I refused to read too much into that, though. After all, the new ward boss of Crow's Foot might want to flaunt his position, just a little.

Moth was still skipping along, peeking at me hopefully.

"Maybe. I'll tell you tomorrow."

"He likes you, miss," she pronounced, with all the wisdom of her ten years.

I didn't have the heart to explain that relationships – at least my relationships – were much more complicated than mere liking. All I said was, "I hope you're right."

* * *

As it turned out, she was.

Bazso had selected a sober, middle-class establishment off Imperial Avenue, where it crossed the ruins of the old city walls. He'd even bribed the hostess for a small table by the window so we could gaze across the canal at his new domain.

With the black water as a backdrop, he raised his whiskey glass. "You're amazing."

Automatically, I clinked my glass against his, ran through different angles of attack, and decided that I wasn't in a subtle mood. With a bluntness that did him proud, I reminded him, "You said you needed time to think things over. Have you thought things over?"

His face growing serious, he folded his arms on the white tablecloth, leaned forward, and lowered his voice. "Yeah, I've thought things over. It was – it was a lot to process, you know."

I set my glass back down in the precise same spot, aligning the facets exactly to where they had been. "I know."

"But, at the end of the day, you were right," he confessed, causing me to look up again. "And even though Mylera still harbors some weird suspicions that I don't fully understand, I don't really see how you can be a triple agent for someone who wants to maneuver her and me into a peace." He cocked his head a little, inviting me to deny it.

"A triple agent," I mused, too relieved to censor myself. "That would be interesting…."

One eyebrow lifted. "That's _not_ encouraging," he warned, but he was mostly joking.

As was I. "No, no, no, that would be too complicated even for me," I reassured him with an airy wave. Then I stopped, aghast. "Oh my gods, I'm starting to sound like Faith!"

Relaxing, he chuckled, "If people spend time together, I guess that tends to happen…." Then he, too, stopped at an appalling thought. "Don't turn into Faith."

Now I was scanning all my actions for Faith-isms so I could purge them. "I'm trying not to."

"She is really cold," pronounced the new ward boss of Crow's Foot, who'd hired a crew of assassins to remove the former occupant of that position.

Cupping my hand over my glass, I twirled it restlessly and asked without meeting his eyes, "How much did you hear about what went down in that tower?"

"Enough. I do know why you're not dead."

"Yeah…." Continuing to fidget with the glass, I asked in a small voice, "Do you ever feel bad about someone you killed?"

This was not the sort of topic we ever discussed.

"What, like _Lyssa_?" Bazso spat out the name with distaste, exactly the way Mylera would have, and disclaimed any need for guilt: "Lyssa was a murderer."

"So am I, so are you," I pointed out, and he eyeballed me warily, as if wondering whether I were going soft or something equally unsavory. "It's just – it's just – we went into that room, and there she was, wearing a pirate hat and this military coat with random medals all over it – and she was just trying _so_ hard. She was like a little girl playing dress-up, you know?"

Heaving a sigh and sagging against his chair back, Bazso admitted, "I do know. But Isha, Lyssa was hardly innocent. She ran what was, at the time, the most infamous of the Crow's Foot gangs."

"I know, it's just…." Biting my lip, I confessed, "Earlier, when you talked about triple agents – I _did_ want to talk to her. I just never got a chance to because she was holed up in her tower."

After studying my face for a long moment, he reached his own conclusions. "You became friends with them, didn't you?" he asked, sounding slightly amused but mostly resigned. "Those Crows you were hanging around with."

I nodded at the tablecloth.

"Well." Bazso ran through some mental calculations, then suggested, "I could always use a few extra scoundrels. If you think they might join the Lampblacks…?"

Almost before he finished the question, I was shaking my head. None of them would ever serve someone who'd murdered their leader and destroyed their gang.

And I would think the less of them if they did.

Reaching across our untouched menus, Bazso took my hands and said gently, "At some point, Isha, you have to pick sides."

Feeling very whiny, I protested, "But what if I could bring everyone together into one big side?" It was a question that was absolutely unworthy of my parents, and Sigmund would have disowned me if he'd heard it.

Bazso only gave my hands a squeeze, which did nothing to soften his next words: "That doesn't work. People don't get along that well. Arguably, it's what the Immortal Emperor tried to do with the Imperium, and look how well that turned out."

Pulling my hands away, I twisted them together in my lap and forced myself to sit still. "I just – I mean, I know it was all three of us – and the two of you hired us – but in a way, I was the most direct cause of death…." Again I saw the balcony of the Crow's Nest, the Crow clinging to Lyssa's boot while she fought mindlessly to fling herself off the edge. I saw the blood that blossomed across his back when I shot him to force him to let her go….

"Yeah, but Isha, you've killed – " Catching a glimpse of our waiter hovering impatiently in the background, Bazso broke off. "Look, I don't know. This is not a thing I'm good at. I usually just wall all of that away and try not to think about it." For a third time, he emphasized, "Lyssa wasn't a good person. A lot of people are going to be a lot better off now."

"Yeah…," I agreed slowly. It was actually true. Lyssa's death was the keystone to the peace that ended a war that had claimed scores of lives.

And yet.

The problem with dining in a real restaurant with real chairs was that etiquette dictated you sit across the table from your partner. Etiquette, I decided, could go jump in the nearest carnivorous-eel-infested canal. I scooted my chair to the other side of the table.

The waiter furrowed his brow at me.

Bazso did not. Putting a comforting arm around my waist, he pulled me close so I could press my head against his shoulder. "Hey, don't let it get you down," his voice rumbled, which I personally thought was a bit like asking an escaped ghost if it would kindly hop back into its bottle – theoretically possible, but wildly improbable.

I stayed plastered to Bazso's chest for so long that eventually he reached for a menu, riffled through it, and ordered for both of us. Moth had been right: He did genuinely like me.

But I had been right too: Simple liking wasn't enough to sustain a relationship, especially not one of _my_ relationships. There had to be honesty too. Even Father had told Mother what he was, albeit after he proposed and she accepted (although she'd already guessed anyway). Honesty, from an Anixis, was a poisoned sweet.

Without turning my head, I mumbled, "Bazso, there's one more thing I have to tell you."

His shirt moved away, leaving cold air under my cheek. "Yeeees?"

Sitting back up, I flicked a glance at his face, which practically screamed, _Don't tell me you're actually a _quadruple_ agent! _"It's not like that."

"Good."

"It's just…awkward." The way incest – or at least the confession thereof – tended to be.

Drawing his own conclusions, Bazso asked swiftly, "Is it the problem that you say I can't break the legs of?"

That was certainly one of describing it. Or _him_, rather_. _"Yeeeeah, it is…."

"Offer stands."

If only this tangle could be solved in so straightforward a manner! Almost in a sob, I confessed, "I don't particularly want his legs broken – I think that's the problem…." Bazso just waited, his face arranged into very deliberate neutrality. "Remember how, a few months ago, I told you I thought I saw someone I knew?"

"I do. So?"

I fumbled for the appropriate euphemism. "So, um…."

"Isha!" he burst out, making the couple at the table next to ours jump. Silverware clattered all around the restaurant as patrons turned to glare. Our waiter scuttled into the kitchen to speed up our order before we scared off the bourgeoisie. "Isha, just tell me! For gods' sakes!"

"It's hard to say!" Especially when I didn't even know where to start. With the history of my House? My parents' marriage? My and my brother's birth? His betrayal? Mine? "Okay. Um. The sword. It belonged to my family, and I stole it. And I ran away. To here."

"Okay." Bazso nodded once, thinking he grasped the enormity of my woes. "So…this bloke wants the sword back?"

"The whole family wants the sword back, and they've sent him to retrieve it."

"Okay."

"And kill me."

Bazso's face hardened. "You know," he remarked lightly, "this really seems like the kind of problem that we could solve for you."

"But that's the problem! Because it's my _brother_. And he doesn't actually want to kill me. He hasn't even told them that he's found me yet."

"Okay." Bazso processed that. Then he processed it some more. "Yeah, okay, maybe this is less of a problem we can help you with," he agreed. "So he found you…. Hmm. So the problem now is that you need to craft a lie to have him send back to your family that…he hasn't found you, and the sword fell into a volcano?"

"I actually think I have that part covered. I have a plan."

"But it's still bothering you, for some reason."

"Um, well, not that part…." No euphemisms were coming to mind, and I couldn't bring myself to speak the word. Just hearing it might traumatize the patrons of this fine establishment. "You see, our relationship is really really complicated?" Biting my lip again, I cocked my head and tried to give him a meaningful look.

"Uh huh." Bazso stared at me as he tried to figure out whether he'd put all the pieces together correctly.

I stared right back as_ I_ tried to figure out whether he'd put all the pieces together correctly. After a moment, his eyes widened just a bit, and I gathered that he had. But as I'd hoped, he ascribed it to cultural differences and tossed it into the melting pot of ethnic diversity that was Doskvol. In any case, he had a more pressing question: "So what happens after you take care of the sword situation?"

All along, I'd avoided thinking about that. As Sigmund had accused when he held me at swordpoint in the railcar, I _didn't _have a grand plan. I'd never had one. I'd assumed – hoped, really – that reconciling the gangs of Crow's Foot would miraculously present me with a panacea, but everything felt more muddled than ever. I had friends in this city now, duties. A passel of children. And, as Mylera had pointed out, U'Duasha was far away and grew ever further with each passing year.

"I haven't thought that far," I said at last to one of my many, many complications.

From the expression on his face, that was not the answer he'd wanted to hear. "Are you leaving then? When you have things…resolved?"

"Do you want me to?" I countered.

"No, of course not," he replied immediately. "I – " All of a sudden, he froze. Then, in a hushed, awed tone: "You're _her_ daughter, aren't you? The Maiden of Lockport. The one in the songs, who left Skovlan forever for love of an Iruvian."

There seemed to be no reason to deny it. "Yes."

"I never thought of her as a real person," he marveled. "She moved to U'Duasha, had children. Had _you_." Almost wistfully, he asked, "Was she – _is_ she – happy there?"

It seemed somehow disloyal – to Bazso, to Mother, to the entire weight of Skovlander cultural yearning – not to answer, "Yes."

And she had been – right up until her daughter ran away with the family sword, her son was dispatched to kill said daughter, and the salvation of her new home forced her to foment rebellion in her old, in full knowledge that it was going to be annihilated.

In my terse response, Bazso read the true answer, or perhaps an inkling of it, and he said hesitantly, "I mean, Isha, I want you to stay, but I also know that, even as the ward boss of Crow's Foot, I can't offer you what you had in Iruvia. And I don't want to make you miserable because you stayed…."

From someone atop the pinnacle of his career, it was a magnanimous gesture. And I repaid it with truth: "If I'd been happy in Iruvia, I wouldn't have left."

"That's a good point. Are you happy _here_?"

Hating Doskvol had become such a deeply engrained habit that it took a moment for me to realize that there were things I'd miss if I ever left. In fact, that might have been part of the reason I hadn't fled to another isle, or at least another city, when Sigmund popped up at the Iruvian Consulate.

Another part of the reason was watching me with a carefully hopeful expression.

Was I happy here? "Yeah," I replied in a wondering tone. "Yeah, I think so."

"Okay." His response came out in a whoosh of relief. "Well then, okay. Okay." As the waiter stalked over triumphantly with our order, Bazso wrapped his arm around my waist and squeezed. "I don't know anything about politics or your family, but I do want to reiterate that if there's anything the ward boss of Crow's Foot – " he puffed up a little, still proud of that title, and the waiter froze – "can do, you just have to ask."

"I know."

Darting glances at _a real live ward boss, at one of my tables, imagine that!_ the waiter set down our plates very respectfully and scurried back into the kitchen for a gossip-fest.

Bazso and I, meanwhile, enjoyed a pleasant meal of fish-and-mushroom pasta plus complimentary dessert, during which we chatted about what he planned for the Lampblacks and how he might move soon. No ward boss of Crow's Foot, according to him, should have to live in a townhouse with peeling wallpaper.

I heartily approved.


	55. Strathmill House

To the amusement of both gangs (and the utter horror of poor Danfield), Ash, Faith, and I soon made good on our threat to run an orphanage. Our first order of business, naturally, was to inspect Strathmill House, that fine establishment dedicated to the conversion of street urchins into honest, upstanding, and productive members of society. Shockingly for Crow's Foot, the place hadn't been a crime front – up until now.

When our crew showed up at the front door with the Insect Kids in tow, a harried Skovlander woman in her mid-forties greeted us, a rolling pin in one hand and flour all over her face. She kept darting nervous glances back down the hallway, as if expecting an explosion at any second. "May I help you?" she inquired politely.

"Good afternoon," Ash said briskly. "You must be the matron, Mrs. Lomond. I've heard good things about you!" Before she could protest, he pumped her floury hand, then introduced us. "My name is Ash, and these are my colleagues, Faith and Glass. We are the new supervisors of Strathmill House."

The matron blinked at him. "New…supervisors?" she asked blankly.

"Oh, has no one informed you of the change in management? What a lamentable oversight."

"Sir…?"

When Faith opened her mouth, possibly to opine on the previous supervisor's lamentable taste in interior decoration, which didn't include anything pink or frilly, I cut in. "What my colleague means to say is: Due to a recent reorganization, we find ourselves tasked with the governance of Strathmill House," I explained. "In order to carry out our duties more effectively, we would like a tour of the premises."

"Oh…oh, of course." Mrs. Lomond stared down at her rolling pin a little helplessly. "Um, if I can put this back in the kitchen first, miss?"

"Certainly. We can start the tour there."

As Mrs. Lomond led us down an eerily deserted hallway, the Insect Kids fanned out and peeked curiously into empty classrooms. Although the miniature tables and chairs impressed them, Faith scowled at the graffiti'ed blackboards and muttered something about books. Or, to be more precise, the lack thereof.

"These are _our_ five orphans. They will live in Strathmill House but will be free to come and go," Ash stipulated, eyeballing the matron as if he expected her to shrill something about protecting her charges from the hazards of the streets – so she could extort us for their free passage.

Instead, she ran a hand through her greying light brown hair, cringed at the sounds of a fight breaking out right overhead, and agreed absently, "Yes, of course."

"Actually," I interrupted, addressing the children directly, "you're welcome to keep living in the railcar if you want." Faith made a little noise, whether of surprise or annoyance I didn't know (and didn't care). "Or you can stay here with other kids your age. Or both. It's your choice."

The Insect Kids had been eyeing the ceiling nervously. Something thumped so loudly that the plaster cracked and rained down little whitish bits. "Yes, miss," Spider replied for all of them.

"Now run along and make friends or get into fights or do whatever it is small children do," Faith instructed, flapping her hands at them. "Shoo!"

Out of habit, they scrambled out of range and then cocked their heads at Ash and me.

"Yes, go find Azael," Ash confirmed. "He's Tycherosian, about your age," he added, looking at Spider. "Tell him that you're the cohort of the crew that hired him and his friend to provide a distraction for…well, he'll remember."

Although Mrs. Lomond summoned the energy to look faintly appalled, the Insect Kids scampered up the nearest set of stairs in search of the Crow's Foot orphans.

"Good!" proclaimed Faith, twirling into a classroom and flopping into a miniature chair (which creaked alarmingly but, to my disappointment, held her weight). "Now that we are unhampered by the delicate sensitivities of undeveloped minds, let us speak freely."

In an unexpected display of vigor, she proceeded to pepper Mrs. Lomond with questions about how Strathmill House functioned. Over the course of the next half hour (during which the scuffle overhead reached an apotheosis, then cut off abruptly with piercing scream), we learned that most of the orphanage's operating budget came from donations from noble and merchant families. The Strathmills, in particular, valued the bragging rights they derived from sponsoring a charity and held annual fundraising tea parties to extract coin from the likes of Vhetin Kellis (whose attendance at such tea parties both Irimina and Ash had so disdained).

As for the orphans, the majority had been born in Crow's Foot, with a smattering from the Docks and Charhallow. A handful were dropped off as squalling infants, and occasionally citizens would get tired of seeing precocious scoundrels loitering about and haul them off to Strathmill House. Most of the children were Akorosian, although as an indication of Doskvol's equal (lack of) opportunity, all the isles were represented. On Mrs. Lomond's limited budget, each child got two sets of worn clothing, three meager meals a day, and a bed that was reasonably warm and marginally softer than a front stoop. There was no school, as she lacked the time (and, most likely, the educational background) to teach them, so the orphans ran wild during the day and returned every night like a flock of pigeons. Nearly all of them were petty criminals who pickpocketed citizens for pocket money while the matron sighed, shook her head, and looked the other way.

At the end of this interrogation, Faith waved her arms about and declared, "What an exemplary educational establishment! I can see that you've left no possible improvements for me to institute!"

Then she winked at the matron, who stared back in complete confusion.

I groaned.

I already knew what was coming.

* * *

Over the next few days, Faith swept through the orphanage like a bright pink cyclone, alternately shooing children out of the way so she could measure the classrooms for bookshelves, or interviewing them to determine which textbooks and graded readers to buy. One morning, she staggered through the front door lugging a bag full of pink streamers and bunting, which she distributed to a roomful of bewildered orphans.

"Classes start tomorrow morning, right after breakfast!" She beamed around the dining hall at a sea of dirty faces. "You are going to learn the three R's: reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic! But first, we have to decorate the schoolroom to create the appropriate ambience for learning. Extra credit to whomever ties the biggest bows!"

Even though it wasn't clear that the children understood the purpose of "extra credit," they erupted into a flurry of activity. Soon the schoolroom walls sagged under the weight of truly gigantic, shimmery, pink bows, at which sight Faith gave a truly gigantic and overly contented sigh.

"Mmmm, much better. We'll hold a painting party at some point. What Crow's Foot really needs is a bright pink orphanage, right, Isha?"

She nudged me with one pink-slippered foot, which I stomped on.

But even I had to admit that her decorating exercise had one useful side effect: Shared terror of and morbid fascination with Faith finally integrated the Insect Kids into the gang of local orphans. Locust began to play with other five-year-olds instead of clinging to Mantis all the time, freeing Mantis to tag along with a little clump of seven- and eight-year-olds. Once classes started, Beetle flourished in the schoolroom and was soon running private tutoring sessions (and charging for them, naturally), while Moth whispered and giggled with other ten-year-old girls about the boys they thought were cute. To Ash's eternal gratification, Spider and Azael clicked immediately and grew as thick as thieves.

Once Faith had cobbled together an academic schedule of sorts, Ash launched a lecture series on "How to Be a Slide." Topics ranged from proper etiquette for different levels of society, to legal practices for cheating merchants, to the most effective ways to lie. Since he had that aspect of their education covered, I didn't really know how to interact with the orphans beyond offering to help with homework. The Insect Kids gleefully accepted, but the others were much more standoffish – although I did notice them putting their new Slide skills to use, observing me covertly while I drilled Beetle in her multiplication tables or read the _Akorosian Primer_ to Mantis. Mrs. Lomond, as was her habit, turned a blind eye to all these new shady activities going on under her roof, but Faith grew concerned enough to issue an official decree at supper (before food was served, to ensure she had everyone's full attention).

"Kids, while petty theft is permissible, any higher-tier crime requires prior approval from one of the three of us. And neglect of schoolwork is completely unacceptable. Do you understand?"

The chorus of "Yes, Miss Karstas!" convinced her, although I personally suspected that the children would have promised anything if it would speed up their meal.

Honestly, the entire project seemed a little too benevolent for Faith, and indeed, my suspicions were soon borne out. "She's most impressive at indoctrinating them to be loyal to us, isn't she?" Ash remarked the next morning while we observed a history lesson on the founding of the Imperium.

If what I remembered from my own history lessons were any indication, Faith's interpretation carried a decidedly anti-Church bent. There was no point in telling Ash that, though, not unless I wanted to hear his own, even more anti-Church, anti-Imperium version. "She's spending too much time on the top students," I criticized instead. "The slowest ones are getting left behind. Look, she's called on that kid – " I tipped my head at an Akorosian girl who sat in the front – "twice in a row now. _Those_ two – " I glared at pair of Dagger Islander boys who were whispering in a back corner – "aren't even paying attention!"

"Well," shrugged Ash, "that just means more business for Beetle."

Perhaps, but I doubted Faith's purpose here was to generate clients for our little Skovlander entrepreneur. And anyway, if she were trying to nurture the brightest children, then why was she ignoring Beetle's waving hand in favor of calling on an Akorosian boy – oh. _Oh._

I knew _exactly _what she was doing here.

After class, I cornered her and demanded, "You're looking for someone you can train to infiltrate the Church, aren't you?"

Opening her eyes wide, she feigned hurt. "Well, I _never_! Here_ I_ am, working my fingers to the _bone_ – " she shoved her chalky fingers under my nose – "so I can prepare these poor children to attend college so they'll have a brighter future, and here _you_ are, accusing me of a hidden agenda!"

Her impassioned defense failed to move me. "Then why have you been neglecting Beetle? She's your best student."

"Neglecting Beetle?" Before I could object, she called the girl over and put a hand on her shoulder. "Beetle, dear, Isha here thinks I've been neglecting you. Tell me honestly, do you feel neglected?"

"_Faith_," I snapped.

Darting nervous glances between the two of us, Beetle quickly shook her head and skittered out from under Faith's hand.

"There!" Faith beamed. "You see, Isha? Nothing to worry about."

And she flounced down the hall, leaving me to dismiss the confused child.

But I kept an eye on her classes, and when her attention started to devolve on Spider, who as an Akorosi _could _potentially rise in the Church hierarchy, I squashed the notion.

"No," I told her flatly. "None of the Insect Kids. Pick someone else for your vendetta."

Faith pouted and complained most pitifully, but did remove him from her shortlist.

* * *

As morale improved, the children began to suggest uses for the leftover art supplies, and they soon festooned the rest of Strathmill House in pink ribbon too. Faith even made good on her threat to paint the orphanage pink, although given the ages of the painters, the walls had more of an ombre effect, with avant-garde splatters on the floorboards.

Meanwhile, our neighbor across the park, Mylera, was following these developments with increasing dismay. The next time I dropped by her office after my beginner lesson, she began, "Look, Signy – " the name she insisted on using in private, probably because I didn't know _her_ real name – "I know there's only so much you can do, but this is really going too far."

The words were stern enough, but she was lounging back in her chair with a cup of coffee, and a semi-amused smile played over her lips.

Relaxing against my own chair back, I shrugged and protested comically, "What do you expect _me_ to do about it?"

The joke, unfortunately, had broader implications than intended. Sitting up straight, Mylera demanded, "_Can _you do anything about it? Because that would be wonderful."

Staying in a slouched position, I raised my eyebrows. "I really don't think so. You have _not_ seen our railcar. And I don't think you want to."

"No," she agreed flatly. "I'm just saying that Crow's Foot has a reputation to maintain." (Faith burst into shrill giggles when I later recounted the conversation to her and Ash.)

"Well," I pointed out, mostly facetiously, "you could look at it this way: Given Crow's Foot's reputation, it's even creepier to have a pink orphanage decked with pink ribbons."

"_No_," Mylera repeated firmly. "We already have the Dimmer Sisters and their lace curtains. They have that aspect of Crow's Foot covered."

The Dimmer Sisters were a famously reclusive group of Whispers (or ghosts, or maybe even vampires, depending on the tale) who lived in a fine old manor house that somehow never, ever got vandalized. Plus everyone knew that people who went into their house never, ever came out again. Even after her stunt with the pile of bodies at the foot of the Crow's Nest, Faith didn't have quite that much clout in the district yet.

"Mylera," I exclaimed, waving my empty coffee cup, "just be glad she hasn't painted the entire outside of the orphanage pink yet!"

"Oh, gods." The head of the Red Sashes and ward boss of the Docks dropped her head into her hands. "You're going to keep her from doing that, right?" When (recalling the ladders I'd seen propped up around the front door this morning) I didn't answer immediately, Mylera lifted her head in one swift motion and gave me a hard stare. "_Right_?"

"I'll try," I promised, not really meaning it.

"Good. Because we do have a reputation to maintain."

"I'll see what I can do," I assured her with more confidence than I felt.

* * *

Luckily for me, Faith's and Mylera's interests coincided on this point. After the obligatory whining about how much the children loved the color pink and how important teambuilding exercises such as painting parties were to forging bonds and fostering _esprit de corps_, Faith pouted out her conclusion: "I _suppose_ we can refrain from painting the entire outside of Strathmill House pink. But we must compensate the crestfallen children somehow for their crushed hopes…." Twisting a lock of hair, she pretended to think hard. "Maaaaaaybe we can pick one of them – as a representative of the children! – and offer them complimentary fencing lessons at the prestigious Red Sash Sword Academy as a consolation prize!"

And I was sure that the fact that all nobles knew how to fence, and all higher-ups in the Church of Ecstasy came from the nobility, played no role whatsoever in her calculation.

"Just one?" I tested. "How about all the twelve-year-olds?"

She returned a saccharine smile. "That seems overambitious, doesn't it? You wouldn't want to tax the patience of a ruthless gang leader with hordes of small children, would you?"

When I went back across the park to relay this offer, Mylera agreed without hesitation. "You're not going to paint the orphanage pink, and you're going to take down the bows canal-side, and then I'll let one of the kids into my school."

"Done," I replied promptly.

Ash would probably have bargained out of sheer force of habit to keep some of the bows up, but I wasn't Ash, and if Faith had really cared about what Charterhall saw from across the canal, then she would have sent him.

That, of course, didn't stop her from whimpering pathetically at me anyway.

"But you have to understand how much the kids love the pink ribbons! You don't want to make the orphans _sad_, do you, Isha? Tell Mylera she's going to make the orphans _sad_!"

I did _not_ convey that to the head of the Red Sashes.


	56. Helping Tess

Far from being devastated by Faith's bargain with Mylera, the orphans gleefully organized a canal-side-pink-bow-removing party that involved scuffles on stepladders, mudball fights, and shredded bits of pink satin that stuck everywhere until the rains swept them all into the canal. (I opted not to meet privately with Mylera after my next class.)

"Perhaps we should move out of the railcar into Strathmill House?" Ash suggested hopefully while the two of us were supervising Faith supervising her little revenge party. In reply, I raised one eyebrow at the confetti-like fabric dotting the canal banks.

Ash persisted, "We should live in a style that's more appropriate to guild members of our status."

By which he probably meant windows that actually shut and kept out the damp, rooms larger than the space of one train compartment, and beds that weren't thin mattress pads scavenged from the Brickston dump. Tempting, but – "No," I answered flatly. "This building has had pink bows on it for a week. _Everyone_ in Crow's Foot knows that we own it."

To that, Ash could only sigh in assent and surrender his dreams of opulence.

* * *

As compensation for his shattered aspirations (and over Faith's protests of "But the orphans, Isha! You're interfering with their education! Do you really want them to wallow in ignorance for the rest of their lives?"), I did help Ash remodel one schoolroom. Although the original intent was to create a decent meeting room where we could host allies and contacts, the room quickly turned into his private study. There, away from the grubby little hands of his beloved orphans, Ash would periodically sequester himself to update his account books and agonize over each coin he'd spent.

Just about the only sum he paid out willingly was a handful of slugs to the Insect Kids for the life essence that they'd collected from dead Crows. Privately, he confided in Faith and me that the children hadn't exactly done a stellar job at scratching out the appropriate runes, and the life essence they'd collected was weak at best, but he wanted to encourage them. So he doubled the amount his mother had paid him for the little vials and handed a pouch of slugs to Spider, who immediately dragged the other Insect Kids plus Azael and few of their special friends off to the nearest bakery. (At some point, Ash was going to have to teach a class on savings and investment.)

By this point, the Insect Kids were splitting their time between the railcar and Strathmill House. On the one hand, they had friends at the orphanage, but on the other, they took their runner duties seriously. Also, while Sleipnir sometimes hopped along with them on their errands, he lived at the railcar with me. At first, I suspected that his presence drew them back as much as their sense of duty, but I soon noticed that where the children slept correlated strongly with the crew's mood. On evenings when Ash, Faith, and I were bickering amiably in the common area, we'd hear little thumps, barks, and squeals of delight from the Insect Kids' compartment. But on nights when Ash, Faith, and I were genuinely fighting, the children would mysteriously vanish, to reappear in the morning. It was a little sad, but perfectly sensible.

* * *

In the midst of all these changes, Faith found time to track down the Charterhall priest at whose service we'd murdered Skannon Vale and Tocker Helker. Months later, the clergyman was still in disgrace because two people had died under his supervision, plus – horror of horrors – he'd surrendered control of his body, however briefly, to an unholy abomination (_i.e._ gotten possessed).

"The poor fellow was starting to worry that he'd get demoted to somewhere truly terrible!" Faith cried after she returned from her little mission.

"Like Coalridge?" I suggested.

"Coalridge? No, I meant _Nightmarket_!" She gave a delicate shudder at the thought of the priest ministering to a flock of merchants and minor nobility. "It was dreadful! I couldn't leave him in such dire straits. I had to reassure him that serving the populace of Nightmarket should really be the least of his concerns."

To that end, Faith ordered Cricket to possess the priest and walk him to Six Towers, where he ambled about, peering curiously at echoes and traipsing after spirits, until he stumbled across the ghost-infested mansion that we'd used for our fake demonic cult headquarters. There, he stood motionless in the middle of the ballroom for hours, mouth ajar as his eyes gazed sightlessly at the ghosts that swirled around him. Off to the side, Faith set up a camera on our sacrificial altar and practiced her long-exposure spectral photography skills.

The next morning, the priest woke on the floor of an unfamiliar house. On his chest lay a photo that showed him surrounded by a flurry of blurred wisps that could only be ghosts – and a note, written in perfect penmanship on a parchment scroll tied with black ribbon.

Back in our common room, twirling a length of the same black ribbon, Faith chirped, "I explained that it would be so _very_ unfortunate if he were to mention the details of the night he was possessed! Because if _that_ happened, who knows what other damning evidence of his obsession with ghosts might surface?" Dropping the ribbon, she fanned herself with a sheath of black-and-white photos, then mockingly held them in her right hand in a gesture that meant, _You are too willing_. Green eyes wide, she declaimed, "After all, he knows what happens to clergy who indulge in scandal and heresy!"

And so he did.

And the clergy themselves typically weren't fanatic enough to want to be Hollowed.

After all, the Church wouldn't have much of a leadership if they all got themselves Hollowed now, would it?

* * *

Among our contacts, the priest wasn't the only one in agonies. Along with our usual cut of the money she was siphoning off from the Hive, Tess included a terse warning: "Djera Maha is starting to ask a lot of pointy questions. I don't know how much longer I can keep this up."

As soon as Zamira Slane passed on the message, Ash yanked Faith and me into the Strathmill House meeting room for an emergency conference. Handing us the note, he paced back and forth in front of the blackboard, on which he'd scrawled interest rate calculations. "I'd like to ensure that our flow of money from Tess stays positive," he told us, pointing at the numbers. "Not to mention that she is my sister and I – " Unaccustomed to expressions of affection, he fumbled for words before settling for an emotionless, "I have a vested interest in this situation – I think we all do. But I'd like to help my sister in a way that doesn't cause the Hive to send assassins against us."

With that, I heartily agreed. Fending off assassins on top of forestalling an Imperial invasion of my homeland would just be too much. "Do you have any ideas?" I asked.

"Some," he replied in a tone that suggested he didn't. "But honestly, I don't have too many contacts in the Hive besides Tess."

"Do you have _any_ contacts in the Hive besides Tess?" retorted Faith sweetly, echoing my thoughts exactly.

Unabashed at being caught in a gross exaggeration, Ash only shrugged. "My mother might. And Irimina. Regardless, to second order, the three of us should have contacts in the Hive."

Given that Zamira Slane's contact in the Hive was Tess herself, and Irimina didn't have contacts so much as _targets_, I had my misgivings. Still, I sent a coded message to Sigmund, who at least moved in the right social circles. He promptly responded that the Hive didn't intersect anything he was trying to accomplish in Doskvol, so if any of his acquaintances were a member, he was not aware of it. He did not ask why I was wasting time tangling with the Hive.

He didn't offer to investigate for me, either.

After considering the matter, I proposed to Ash that Tess could experience the memories of people who'd known Vhetin.

He immediately improved on the idea. "Faith," he called. "Faith?"

After a suitably long time, Faith hauled herself into the railcar common area, looking as if she were already mortally bored and expected the upcoming conversation to bore her even further. Without acknowledging either of us, she sagged into Ash's usual chair.

He barely noticed. "Faith, I'd like to trade you a very big favor – and I'm happy to have that favor called in right now if you wish – for the memories of the woman my sister is currently impersonating."

In the middle of tracing designs in the dust on the table with one fingernail, she suddenly perked up. "Oh, right, _those_ silly things!" she exclaimed, as if she'd forgotten all about them until now. "But they're so _pretty_, decorating my mantel!"  
"Wait, you keep them on your mantel?" I blurted out before I could catch myself. Even after translating "mantel" to "desk" or "bookcase," that still seemed foolhardy.

"How _else_ would you get that nice electroplasmic glow in your room?" she scolded. Preening over her interior decorating skills, she purred, "The blue really complements the pink."

"Well," said Ash slowly, as if he were working through a particularly complicated calculation in his head, "I know there is something you want…but I have _no_ idea what it is, because every time I try to guess _anything_, I am completely wrong. So…what can I do to help you? With your decoration problems? Or any other problems you might have?"

Blinking innocently, Faith conveyed with one expressive pout that she didn't know either what she wanted, and only a lout and a cad would point that out to a lady.

Ash heaved a deep sigh. "Okay, Faith. Then I'll write you a poem." Tapping a pen against his notebook, he frowned in concentration and began to mutter to himself. Casually, I leaned sideways to scan his work. So hesitantly that the ink pooled in spots, Ash composed the lines: "You flutter through the air/Like a swarm of bloody butterflies/And when you wake each morning/A gathering of ghosts serenade your exquisite burnt skin." Then he stopped, crossed out "burnt," and glared at the paper, spinning his pen through his fingers as he sought one last alliteration.

"My exquisite _sunburnt_ skin?" Faith suggested.

"Yes, exactly!" He filled it in, ripped the page out of his notebook, flapped it to dry the ink, and handed it to her with a flourish.

After the obligatory raptures, she finally agreed to negotiate with his mother.

Before she could change her mind, Ash immediately scribbled a message to Zamira, in which he offered our assistance in his own inimitable way: "We've attracted more attention than we'd like, but Tess's situation is not good. Once our affairs are in order, we'll come in person to talk to you."

As he handed the sealed note to the Insect Kids for delivery, Faith observed cheerfully, "Like Isha, I'm always happy to consort with demons."

By now, the Insect Kids were so used to her random comments that they didn't even squeak. They simply took the note and scampered off.

Faith's needling, however, reminded me of something I'd meant to investigate. Feigning disinterest, I drifted over to the window as if to check on the runners and addressed the Old Rail Yard, "Speaking of demons, what is a Setarra anyway? In that diagram of the Ascension ritual, why did you label the tentacle 'Setarra'?"

In her reflection in the window, Faith's eyes lit up at the prospect of baiting me some more. "Noooo," she whined, "I labeled the tentacle 'Totally not Setarra.' Because it wasn't Setarra. It was just an arbitrary tentacled demon." She paused for so long that I turned around to cock my head at her inquiringly. Then she finished triumphantly, "With sharp, pointy suckers that claw off people's legs."

In spite of himself, Ash chuckled.

"So what or who is Setarra?" I persisted.

Frowning, Ash asked, "Isn't that the name of the demon that tried to rip us apart in the canal? Faith, didn't you tell me to go talk to Setarra last time? And tell her that you sent me? I tried, but she wasn't under the bridge."

"You did _what_?" I demanded.

Faith just bared all her teeth in a bright, chipper grin.

The crew member she'd nearly gotten killed betrayed no trace of concern. "Consorting with demons is probably a great way to find allies against the Church," pronounced Ash. "Not that we aren't up to the task ourselves, of course – " yes, of _course_ – "but more allies never hurt."

Now it was Faith's turn to chuckle.

Before we could get sidetracked, I quickly summarized our discussion. "Let me just get this straight: Setarra is a water demon. Specifically, the water demon that nearly killed us while we were assassinating Ronia Helker."

Ash automatically dismissed that with a "We were in fine shape." Then he reconsidered. "Okay, fine, yes, it was very painful."

That was one way of putting it. "Ye-es." But all memories of that fight vanished in a flash, because I'd just connected two more dots. "And Setarra was also the strange lady who asked my student about Faith."

Weeks ago, Vaati Zayana had whispered that a mysterious woman approached him to inquire about Faith and me. His very demeanor had screamed, "Demon!" and I trusted his instincts. After all, he was Iruvian, and we Iruvians knew our demons.

"Oooh, you mean the founder of my fan club?" Clearly, Faith also remembered the incident. "You shouldn't call her _strange_, Isha. That's not very nice."

Ash, on the other hand, had a different objection. "What makes you think this is the same person, and that the canal demon can take human form?"

"Unless Faith is friends with _multiple_ demons?" I retorted. It seemed unlikely, although at this point I wouldn't put anything past her.

Turning to Ash, Faith entreated with a hint of a pout, "_We're_ friends, right, Ash?"

"Yes, of course," he replied absently, then mused, "I wasn't aware that the canal demon Setarra could take human form."

"So they're possibly two separate demons?" I clarified.

"Faith?" asked Ash.

Her hint of a pout transformed into a comprehensive mope. "But I was _so_ enjoying listening to your wild conjectures. That sounds a lot more fun than explaining myself."

"Setarra does seem to be very sophisticated," Ash taunted.

The compliment to her enemy worked. "Fine," she snapped. "I'll explain myself. If you really must know, back in the day, Setarra and I had a very close personal relationship." She drew out the last words and waggled her eyebrows at me, implying all sorts of scandalous aspects to said close personal relationship. When I blanked my face and refused to blush, she continued blithely, "I was teaching her how to be a Whisper, but then I decided she was an abomination, so I stopped teaching her. Or maybe it was the other way around." Her dimples flashed. "I have a hard time remembering, sometimes."  
And I had a hard time trusting her, all the time. "Ash," I appealed, "which part of that was actually true?"

He was scowling at Faith's careful logical wording. "It's certainly true that Faith was teaching Setarra to be a Whisper and decided she was an abomination, or the other way around…."

Sitting up as straight as an etiquette master's dream pupil, Faith announced, "She taught me a very important life lesson."

Very cautiously and even more skeptically, Ash inquired, "Yeees?"

"Demon eggs," she pronounced with great authority, "do not taste great in mousse."

Who would even want to _try_ that_?_ Who would even _think_ of trying that? "Ugh!" I cried. "Ugh!" Visions of burnt, blackened dessert pulsing with demonic veins and slowly oozing over the sides of a crystal bowl filled my mind.

To purge the images, I reached out to Grandfather. _Do demons lay eggs? Did you hatch from an egg?_

There was a surprised silence, tinged with wariness. Then Grandfather offered enigmatically, _I could teach you more about the mysteries of my kind, if you were interested._

Already regretting the impulse, I didn't answer. But I did file that away for later consideration.

Meanwhile, Ash was saying, "Maybe we should invite Setarra in her nice, elegant human form – "

"To tea!" cried Faith brightly.

" – to dinner someday," he finished.

"No!" I yelped.

"No!" Faith screeched at the same time. "I'm not inviting an abomination to our house!"

"_Thank you_, Faith," I said.

Faith slumped all the way down in Ash's chair and mumbled, "Besides, she'd say no."

"Maybe that's safest," he agreed.

Straight away, she changed her mind. "Or maybe we should. But only if she brings more of her eggs. If we cooked them longer, they might actually be palatable…."

"No," I told both of them emphatically, "we are not inviting a demon over for dinner. Or tea."

"But – but – haven't you ever wanted to taste a demon omelet?" pleaded Faith. Waving her hands, she conjured up the image of a big, fluffy platter of cooked baby water demon.

Ash answered for both of us. "Not specifically, no." Then his merchant side took over and he added, "But I'm sure there's a very good market for demon eggs. Probably not for eating, though."

Before Faith could come up with even more ridiculous uses for possibly-nonexistent demon eggs, we were saved by Moth returning with a note from Zamira Slane. Gratefully, Ash's mother wrote that she would appreciate our assistance in this delicate matter, and that we should feel free to call on her at our earliest convenience.

Ash and I, at least, thought that our earliest convenience was right now.

* * *

When we were ushered into Zamira's office, Mistress Slane looked more frazzled than usual, but she still gestured graciously at the chairs across from her. The three of us took our usual seats, with our usual postures.

"We heard about Tess's problems – " Ash began.

"I think we should pull her," their mother interrupted.

The potential loss of revenue hit Ash hard. "Is that what she wants?" he demanded.

"It's what's best," Zamira informed him. "She's going to get herself killed."

"Not if we can help her," he argued, "which is why we're here." When she continued to look unconvinced, he wheedled, "Pulling her at this stage is going to draw a lot of unwanted attention." Having thus set the stage, he proposed selling her Vhetin's memories for one favor, to be determined at a later date.

Zamira agreed without thought. "All right. Done." Then she cast a slightly apprehensive glance in Faith's direction, which I personally thought was very wise of her.

In reply, Faith smiled lazily.

Bargain complete, Ash threw in a bonus to sweeten the deal: "If you need help getting Tess to the Sensorium, that's a service we can provide. The memories are there."

"That place in Charterhall?" asked Zamira. At his nod, she said, "That should be fine. It's not so unusual for a noblewoman to wander around Charterhall."

"I think she'll find the experience quite intoxicating," Ash noted, most likely referring to the Sensorium rather than the streets of Charterhall.

"Informative! _Informative_!" Faith corrected him. "It's supposed to be informative! Not intoxicating!"

More relaxed now that her older daughter probably wasn't going to be exposed and slaughtered by a criminal organization, Zamira sat back to watch the show. I, however, kept a sharp eye on all three of them, even as Ash remarked sardonically, "That's not what you said last time, Faith."

"Oooh, maybe if we make a _ghost_ – "

"Regardless, it should help a lot with Tess's problems."

And so it did.

On her next "shopping expedition," Tess slipped away from her handlers and made her way to the Sensorium, where Vhetin's memories and a private room were already waiting. She came away much better informed, if perhaps not quite intoxicated.

Faith, naturally, had to have the last word on the matter. "I suppose I should have thought of this earlier," she confessed. "But it just didn't seem worth mentioning!"


	57. The Lancer

After we resolved that crisis, my life finally settled down into a new norm, one that didn't involve spying on each of my friends for the other. Although Mylera didn't bother to change her lifestyle, Bazso, as he'd promised, soon moved into a much nicer townhouse where the shutters hung straight and the wallpaper adhered firmly to the walls. He even invited me along to Nightmarket to select new furnishings, which was surprisingly fun, even if it did leave me with a nagging sense of unease. It wasn't until we'd finished decorating that I finally pinpointed the cause: Unlike his old townhouse, every single room of Bazso's new home confronted me with a tangible tie to Doskvol. That night in the restaurant, I'd heavily implied that I was planning to stay, hadn't I? When I hadn't even decided what to do about my family. About Grandfather. Sigmund.

But all of that could wait, I told myself virtuously. For now, there was fencing to be taught and orphans to be tutored and healing to be done. While my injuries were all internal, Ash still looked somewhat charred around the edges. Faith's skin tone, at least, was slowly returning to normal.

Nevertheless, our lovely lady patron couldn't let such useful assassins lie idle for long, and she soon invited us to another business tea. This time, we found Irimina draped across her usual divan in her usual languid posture – but the rest of her parlor looked disturbingly different. While before it had conveyed an impression of refined, if slightly shabby, elegance, now the room just felt cluttered. China figures and lace doilies lay just the slightest bit crooked. Books piled up at awkward angles on available (and unavailable) flat surfaces. Even some of the tassels on the Iruvian rug had been kicked askew, as if the maids were far too busy cleaning elsewhere to have noticed yet. As I sank into a sofa cushion, I scanned the book spines and noted that they all appeared to be secondary school-level texts on the usual array of academic subjects.

Leafing through one of them, Faith arched a quizzical eyebrow. "Boden's _Primer on the Arcane_?" she inquired delicately.

Irimina smiled around the parlor a little helplessly, as if noticing its disarray for the first time. "Well, I know, but one has to start somewhere."

Curious, Ash began, "You're interested in personally mastering – "

"Oh, no." She hastened to disabuse him of this notion. "They're not for me."

"Whose are they, then?" I asked.

"Andy's, of course," she replied, taken aback that anyone would _not _have guessed.

"Andy?" Last time I checked, Irimina's brother was named Roethe. And had absolutely no interest in the Whispery arts or, indeed, anything besides murdering people in duels and commissioning white-and-silver clothing.

"Her _son_," Faith reproached me.

Her son? It took me a moment to process that Andrel Helker, son of the Butcher of Lockport, had a nickname. A cute, innocent nickname, at that. (Then again, maybe Ronia herself had grown up being called Rony or Ron-Ron or something equally innocuous.)

"They keep leaving their things all over the place," the proud adoptive mother was complaining, somewhat perfunctorily. She shook her head fondly at the mess. "It's okay, though."

Serious for once, Faith leaned forward, meeting and holding Irimina's eyes. "Does that mean they're staying here?"

For the life of me, I couldn't understand this display of interest. After all, she'd already fulfilled her last promise to Tocker Helker. _Why do you care?_ I hand-signed at her, but she either didn't notice or didn't want to notice.

"I thought that would be a lot safer," Irimina was explaining earnestly.

"Yes," agreed Faith, "it probably is." Breaking their gaze at last, she paged through Boden's _Primer on the Arcane_ without seeming to see it. "How are they?"

"They're well. Moody, but that's not exactly a surprise."

"I was pretty moody when I was their age as well," Faith remarked. She rolled her eyes at some of the exposition in the _Primer_, shut it with a thump, and set it on the nearest end table. Then she reached for another textbook.

In my opinion – not that Faith ever cared – this display of maternal instincts from two of the most vicious people I knew was deeply unsettling. "I think we all were," I put in, mostly for something to say. "Moody at that age, I mean." Although I, for one, had known better than to show it in public.

Faith's hand dropped away from the textbook. "What? Isha! Even _you_?" she exclaimed. "I didn't think you had it in you to be moody!"

"I grew out of it," I snapped. To Irimina, I asked as if expressing polite disinterest, "So have the children completely moved in with you? Are you selling the Helker estate?"

As expected, the proud new mother seized the excuse to blab on about her children. "Oh, no, we're keeping the townhouse. But, like I said, I thought it would be much safer for them here, given that there are a lot of people in the city who blame them for their parents' actions. Or, really, their mother's actions."

Some cautious circling later, I determined that before they shut up the Helker townhouse, Irimina – or rather, her servants – had moved anything of sentimental, legal, or strategic value to the Kinclaith mansion. That, crucially, included the safe containing all of Ronia's papers, which Irimina cluelessly described as "assorted wills and deeds."

Ash and I knew better. Casting a sidelong glance in my direction, he hand-signed under the coffee table, _Battle plans?_

I signed back, _Yes_.

_Let's see what she invited us here for, then decide on a buyer for the plans._

Assuming we could access the safe, of course.

"I have a job for you, if you're free," Irimina was saying. As evidence of her refined manners, she almost suppressed a doubtful glance at Ash's burned face.

"We're not that injured," he assured her instantly. "We're always available for you, of course. Most of the time."

"Aww," she teased. Then all traces of amusement drained from her features. "The leviathan hunter fleet is coming back to port soon."

Starting in late spring, the leviathan hunters stalked demons in the Void Sea north of Akoros and Skovlan. Although, given the relative size and strength of the quarry, perhaps "stalked" wasn't the appropriate descriptor. "Buzzed up to and stung like a mosquito" might be more accurate. Naturally, the leviathans slapped them away when they noticed, doing quite a bit of damage to the ships and sailors in the process. After half a year of this abuse, the leviathan hunters limped back to port, battered and torn, for repairs that might take all winter. As a result, Doskvol's coldest, but also driest, season was a time of lavish spending. Nightmarket always got particularly lively in the fall, as Doskvolians prepared for a whirlwind of balls and banquets in honor of the returning heroes.

Irimina continued, "Given the income from the Orchid Salon, my financial situation has improved, so I thought it might be time to deal with some loose ends." Drawing a deep breath, she savored her next words: "I want you to kill Captain Clave."

"Impressive," remarked Ash, his face revealing none of his thoughts.

It fell to me to ask, "Captain Clave?"

"She is the captain of the _Lancer_, and I want her dead."

"That sounds reasonable," Ash agreed mildly. "Difficult – but reasonable."

I shot him an incredulous look. What aspect of that request qualified as reasonable? Leviathan hunters were basically floating fortified cities. Just look at Tangletown. Not even the Strangfords had dared attack it.

Ignoring me, Ash rambled on, "They seem most majestic. I've never been on one personally – I've never been one for the seas – but I assume that we can wait until after it docks and the captain gets into whatever debauchery the captain gets into."

Irimina nodded grimly. "Of course."

That certainly allowed us more freedom of maneuver. We could even continue our theme of attacking targets while they indulged their favorite vices. "What can you tell us about this Captain Clave?"

"She is…" Irimina cut off, as if censoring herself. When she spoke again, it was in a precise, remote voice. "She is a leviathan hunter captain, and therefore she is heartless. She's fond of _fine things_," spat the collector of Iruvian antiquities.

By now, Faith had gone too long without comment. She interrupted with an enthusiastic: "Oooh, and _we're_ fine things! Does that mean she'll like _us_?"

Icily, Irimina regarded her for a long moment. "Please don't desert me for Lady Clave." Her steely tone said that she didn't believe Faith would, but neither of them would like very much it if she did.

Meeting her eyes most forthrightly, Faith assured her, "I had not even considered it, until you just said that."

When Irimina seemed uninclined to break off their staring match, Ash reminded her, "So Captain Clave is heartless and insufferable?"

Snapping back to attention, Irimina sniffed contemptuously. "Yes. She is fond of living in the lap of luxury. As far as I can tell, whenever she is not at sea, she is busy buying things in Nightmarket to decorate her Brightstone townhouse."

And as far as _I _could tell, everyone who came into contact with Faith picked up her conversational habits. Was alliteration contagious?

"Does she do anything with her house while she's away?" Ash asked.

"No, I think she largely shuts it up, like anyone else." (Well, anyone with more than one home, anyway.)

"Even though we don't need to know, I'm sure we're all very curious how she's displeased you," Ash hinted. "If it's a story you're willing to tell."

She was. "The _Lancer_ used to be _our_ leviathan hunter. As the Kinclaiths at the time of – " she broke off, composed herself, then continued resolutely, "at the time of my parents' death did not have a person old enough or trained enough to captain the ship, it was given to our closest kin. Our cousins, the Claves." Bitter sarcasm crept into her voice. "And then, somehow, it never quite found its way back to us."

Later, after some research in the Charterhall public archives, Ash and I would uncover the full story: After the elder Kinclaiths died under somewhat suspicious circumstances, their distant cousins persuaded the Lord Governor that a leviathan hunter was too valuable a resource to float idly in port while the Imperium waited for the children to grow up, attend the College of Naval Command at Doskvol Academy, and take over their family legacy. Thus, in the interim, the ship was awarded to one of the Claves to steward until Irimina and Roethe came of age. This "interim," however, had lasted well into the siblings' adulthood, with no signs of ever ending.

"Are you planning to captain the _Lancer_ yourself?" I demanded, not bothering to hide my disbelief. As far as I could tell, leviathan hunting and smuggling required two entirely different skill sets.

"I – no! Gods, no. Maybe Roethe. Not me. I'm far too busy."

Ever focused on business, Ash inquired practically, "Is there someone we should maneuver into position to take over, then?"

"It would be good for Roethe."

In deference to our hostess, I concealed my opinion of that assessment. Perhaps – and this was a leviathan-sized perhaps – being thrown into a position of responsibility for providing the lifeblood of the Imperium _might_ cure Roethe of his penchant for duels and fineclothing, but somehow I doubted it. Honestly, even a child would make a better captain, especially if said child left actual command of the ship to an experienced executive officer. "How about Polonia?" I countered. "If she takes after her mother, she would make a formidable leviathan hunter captain."

Half-forgotten off on the side, Faith piped up, "Oh, so you remember Polonia but not Andy. Does that mean _she's_ the one you plan to ensnare in your political machinations?"

"I have no plans of the sort," I snapped.

Having either provoked the desired response – or failed to – Faith didn't bother to react.

Proving that she knew Faith, neither did Irimina. She merely reminded me, "Polonia wouldn't be a bad choice, but she's too young."

As Irimina and her brother had been at the time of their parents' deaths. Did she dream of reclaiming the ship so she could transfer it to her adopted daughter, to redress the wrongs of her own childhood? In that case, I personally would wait until Polonia graduated from the Academy and could take over the ship immediately, at which point I could make a much more compelling case for ending the Claves' "stewardship."

Ash, who also knew Roethe's reputation in the city, probed, "Do you think the courts would side with you, in terms of reinstating Roethe?"

In the face of logic, Irimina could only scowl. "It _is _our leviathan hunter."

Lazily, Faith interjected, "I'm sure that if the Claves had no close relatives, that would be the most reasonable course of action. So – how many close family members do we need to kill?"

"Just Lady Clave will suffice," Irimina allowed, in the tone of one granting an almost impossible concession.

At that, Faith's lower lip jutted out further than I'd thought anatomically possible. "That sounds almost too easy!" she lamented. "I thought the boulevards of Brightstone would be lined with the Claves' children's corpses." Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a twitch from Ash. "Alas, I suppose our assassination shall be precise. There shall be no spillover, simply the singular slaughter of a sailor on the stern cabin of this solitary leviathan hunter."

Back in control of himself, Ash smirked across the coffee table at Irimina. "You know," he remarked, "she's like this with all of our patrons – but mostly with you."

"Is she?" From her pleased simper, the lady didn't mind this dubious honor one bit.

Faith glared at Ash, then winked at Irimina, who actually blushed.

Collecting her thoughts with visible effort, the lady recalled us to the business at hand. "I'm hopeful that with the death of Lady Clave, since none of her relatives has the requisite training and Roethe does, in fact – " here even the loyal sister looked slightly uncertain about his qualifications – "I believe we can force the judge to reexamine the case. Therefore, I think that removing Lady Clave herself will be sufficient."

Ash nodded sagely. "A leviathan hunter is worth quite a few deaths. Just one seems like quite a good bargain. The natural question here is: Ideally, who should be seen as having done this?"

Irimina heaved a regretful sigh. "I've been told that I need to stop framing people willy-nilly. If you could make it look like an accident, that might be nice. Otherwise, I don't really care, as long as it's not us." She gestured around the parlor, indicating all the residents and guests of the Kinclaith mansion.

"Have you considered the solution of framing the person who's complaining about you framing people willy-nilly?" Faith suggested slyly. "That does seem very appropriate."

"No…."

"In fact, _I_ was the one who told you that, right?"

"No…."

"Who was it?" I slid in the question, wondering if she'd slip up and name Salia.

But Irimina wasn't fooled for one instant. "Oh, a friend."

Feigning comprehension, Faith agreed soothingly, "Ah, that's different then."  
"Yes," said Irimina, "please don't frame them. That would be…bad."

"So," summarized Faith, beaming at Ash and me, "it will be an accident. A terrible, tragic…house-decorating accident!"

"We can decide the details later," Ash told her. A sudden thought struck him, and he mused, "It's a good thing they don't accept ghost testimony. Otherwise, we'd be in quite a bit of trouble."

Immediately, our Whisper corrected him. "I don't think that's accurate. Usually we don't leave much of the ghosts of our victims. Unless they're in pretty little jars." Coquettishly, she tipped her head to a side and twinkled at Irimina, "By the way, how is your friend doing?"

"Oh, _her_." Irimina's lips curled up in a satisfied grin, like that of a specter after a full meal. "Na'ava and I have spent many pleasant evenings together."

In answer, Faith cast her a delighted smile. Then, as if the mention of pleasant evenings had reminded her of something, she glared at Ash and me very pointedly, waiting for the two of us to leave.

Ash, however, had more questions and was not to be deterred by mere death glares. Crossing his legs comfortably, he asked, "So, if Andy is interested in the arcane, what about Polonia?"

I shot him an inquiring look. _Why have you been so interested in children lately?_

_They're so valuable_, he signed back. _Raising people with loyalty is so much better than having to pay them later. We should cultivate loyalty early._ I did note that he omitted his obvious soft spot for children.

Missing our exchange, Irimina answered his question, "Polonia is interested in politics, like her mother."

If politics meant military massacres, sure. Putting her on a ship and sending her far from shore seemed like the safest option for Iruvia and Skovlan. And the rest of the Imperium. "She'd make a perfect captain then," I hinted.

The doting mother agreed completely. "She would."

"Or governor, perhaps," added Ash, who was a lot more likely to entangle Polonia Helker in political machinations than I was. I tried to catch Faith's eye to point this out, but she was actually hanging on Irimina's response.

"Perhaps. I don't want to put too much pressure on them. They did just lose both their parents."

"Some direction could help them move on," Ash suggested.

"Perhaps," repeated Irimina flatly, ending that line of discussion.

Faith glowered at Ash. "Please," she reproved him. "Giving personal advice to clients is the purview of the less dignified members of the crew."

Her indignation only made him chuckle. "How about _im_personal advice?" he retorted. She glared even harder. Still smirking, he rose to his feet and bowed politely to Irimina. "Nevertheless, we will leave you two to whatever personal advice you have. Isha?"

I didn't even bother to linger outside the parlor to eavesdrop. I knew I'd get a full report later from Irimina's staff.

* * *

This time, the housemaid showed up to our rendezvous point in Charhallow Market with a new recruit in tow: Irimina's lady's maid. As evidence of her higher rank within the Kinclaith household, if not my organization, the latter wore two of Faith's ribbons in her hair instead of just one.

As my senior agent, the housemaid spoke first. "After you left, miss, her ladyship and Mistress Karstas stayed in the parlor for another hour. They was talking about _raising kids_." She and the lady's maid exchanged bewildered glances.

For the new recruit, I donned my best bored-spymaster expression. "Indeed?"

The housemaid nodded vigorously, then gestured for the lady's maid to report. With trepidation, my newest agent mumbled, "Her ladyship and Mistress Karstas – they stayed up late talking about what they wanted." Her voice was barely audible over the din of the marketplace.

The housemaid jabbed her with one pointy elbow and hissed, "Louder!"

Straightening, the lady's maid cleared her throat and spoke more clearly. "Mistress Karstas said that she usually gets bored very quickly, so she doesn't necessarily see this lasting long term."

That sounded like the Faith I knew. "Go on."

Gulping and darting a nervous glance at the housemaid, the lady's maid admitted, "I don't really understand this next part, miss."

Before I had to remonstrate with her, the housemaid did it for me. "Just tell her what you heard. She don't need your com-men-ta-ry."

Flinching, the lady's maid continued, "Her ladyship put a hand on Mistress Karstas's shoulder, like she was sad, and said, 'No, I know it can't, sooner or later you're going to die.' And then – and then Mistress Karstas said to her, 'You have no idea how many decades I've spent wishing that were true.'"

"_What_?" I demanded, stunned.

Since the lady's maid looked too overwhelmed to go on, the housemaid cast her a scathing look and took over. "That's what her ladyship said too, miss. She asked Mistress Karstas how old she is, and Mistress Karstas said that's an inappropriate question to ask a lady. Then she started giggling, and Lady Irimina said she was sorry, and Mistress Karstas said, 'Way older than you.'" Here the housemaid also stopped briefly, perplexed by the words coming out of her own mouth. Irimina was in her early thirties, while Faith looked twenty-five.

Except my archivist had already alerted me that she hadn't aged a day for at least ten years, maybe even longer.

And she'd once been an acolyte in the Church of Ecstasy.

Oh dear. I didn't like where this was going.

Resuming her report, the lady's maid said, "They were on a loveseat in her ladyship's bedroom, miss. Mistress Karstas cuddled up and said that back when _she_ was her ladyship's age, she led the sermon that resulted in the Charhallow Conflagration. And then she said, 'Pink is a very dignified color for someone in their sixties'!"

Good gods. I managed to force out, "Did she say…_how_?"

Both maids shook their heads. Drawing confidence from my shock, the lady's maid told me, "Her ladyship asked that too. But all Mistress Karstas would say was, 'Not like you.' And her ladyship said, 'I know. I asked Salia. And when I asked Salia about Roethe, she said she wouldn't. But when I asked Salia about _you_, she said she couldn't – and refused to explain what she meant.'"

Salia's name seemed to come up over and over, at least where Irimina and Faith were concerned. At some point, I was going to have to track her down. "So if this Salia wouldn't explain, did Mistress Karstas?"

"No, miss. She just said, 'The Church has its ways.'"

Oh gods.

_The Church has its ways_. The Church indeed had its ways.

At least one of which involved binding purified demon essence into the human bodies of its highest-ranked clergy.

But no. I reined in my imagination before it could paint my crewmate as a part-human, part-demon hybrid monstrosity. Faith had only been an acolyte in the Church of Ecstasy. And the Ascension ritual was reserved for the top echelons. There was no way the Church would have conferred such a great honor on a mere acolyte – and especially not an acolyte as annoying as Faith. If you had to create an immortal colleague, why would you pick _her_?

Thus reassured, I returned my attention to the lady's maid, who was saying, "Her ladyship asked, 'So you're immortal?' Mistress Karstas told her, 'If you poke me, I still bleed. If you leave me, my _heart_ will still bleed.' Her ladyship relaxed here, miss. She started flirting again. She said, 'I thought _you_ were the one who might leave.' Mistress Karstas looked serious then and said that she does get bored easily."

That warning sounded uncharacteristically sincere for Faith. "So," I said slowly, frowning as I puzzled out my crewmate's intentions. She'd started flirting with Irimina as a way to extract higher payments, hadn't she? But full seduction seemed to be a little too far along that line of duty, as far as Faith was concerned. She, after all, was not a devotee of That Which Hungers. Not quite believing that I was even asking the question, I confirmed, "So…so they seem to be serious about each other?"

The lady's maid nodded emphatically. "Oh, yes, miss. Very serious. Her ladyship said that it's okay if this isn't forever. Then Mistress Karstas leaned over and kissed her, and then…and then I thought it was a good time to leave."

It took me a good half-minute to process those implications.

This entire time, I'd thought that Faith was toying with our patron for the benefit of crew coffers – when in fact she genuinely cared about Irimina as a person. As a lover, even. Ye gods. Who was Faith Karstas anyway?

On autopilot, I stuttered out some words of praise and paid my two informants. I made sure to give the housemaid a bonus for her initiative.


	58. The Hazards of Experimental Artwork

In the next few days, as the rest of the Doskvol did the math and realized that the leviathan hunter fleet would return within a week, a wave of excitement swept through the city. In Brightstone, teams of servants scrubbed the grime off marble facades and polished all the brass doorknobs, while fishermen roved the streets crying out their wares. In Nightmarket, all the stores refreshed their window displays with a distinct nautical theme – little model ships in toy shops, anchor-shaped breads in bakeries, and in the fanciest patisserie, where the swankiest nobles ordered confections for their banquets, a three-foot-tall cake shaped like a tentacled demon, with a palm-sized fondant leviathan hunter next to it. Even in Coalridge and Crow's Foot, little stalls sprouted like mushrooms, and everywhere in the city, hawkers were bellowing, "Chestnuts! Roast chestnuts!" and "Hot watermoss patties! Get yer hot watermoss patties!"

As Ash, Faith, and I passed a Charhallow candied mushroom vendor, who was doing brisk business with parents who splurged for their children once a year, Ash suggested offhandedly, "Let's try to make this score a little more subtle than last time, when we threw Lyssa off the Crow's Nest while standing on top of it. Although – I will admit that it was slightly exhilarating."

"Only if we get float oil first this time!" I said.

"Certainly," he agreed. "Now that the captain is coming home, her household staff will be re-opening her house and re-stocking her kitchen, which provides us with an opening to sneak in. A guillotine in her bedroom would be very dramatic – "

Before he could get carried away by his own artistry, I interrupted, "Irimina wanted it to look like an accident."

"Yes, yes, I'm still working out how to make that look accidental." Because guillotines commonly materialized in leviathan hunter captains' bedrooms that had been shut up for half a year? "All right," he conceded, glancing at my expression, "we should learn more about her and her habits first. We could go to a pub to ask questions – although the people who know her best are currently on her ship."

That wasn't precisely true, since her family and servants interacted with her for the other half of the year and presumably knew her proclivities. Still, an even more effective strategy occurred to me: "There might be memories at the Sensorium."

"That's true!" Stopping dead in the middle of the alley, Faith beamed at me. "Why, Isha, I'm incandescent with joy! If I'd known you were interested, I'd have introduced you to Madame Keitel eons ago!"

When had I said I was planning to join her? "You and Ash can go. I'll…reconnoiter another way."

"Isha!" Ash scolded.

"I bet most of those memories are from her sailors," I explained with disingenuous earnestness. "I'll interview her servants."

With that, he couldn't really argue.

* * *

While my crewmates headed to the Sensorium, I donned a clean, plain, dark cotton dress that marked me as a shop girl from one of the more respectable Nightmarket establishments and went to the backdoor of the Clave abode. When the housekeeper met me in the kitchen, I explained that my employer – I carefully avoided specifying who it was – wished to send Lady Clave a selection of pieces for her consideration, and asked what might interest her.

The housekeeper shook her head regretfully. "Tell your master that he's wasting his time, miss," she advised. "Her ladyship isn't one of those coddled noblewomen who can't take five steps without running out of breath. When she shops, she drives herself to Nightmarket and walks around."

I made a pathetic face at her. "Please, ma'am, my master isn't one to take 'no' for an answer. Can't you tell me anyway, just so I can tell him?"

The woman sighed and glanced around the kitchen as if calculating how much more work she needed to do before the house was ready for her mistress, but she stepped aside and let me peek into the hallway. It was decorated exactly as you'd expect of a leviathan hunter captain who wanted everyone to know that she was a leviathan hunter captain. Glass-fronted cases spaced at perfectly regular intervals along the walls displayed a clutter of ship paraphernalia, including what resembled parts from decommissioned ships. A battered but lovingly polished carved wooden wheel hung on the wall between a pair of old brass lamps.

Following my gaze, the housekeeper puffed up. "Those lamps come from the _Lancer_," she told me proudly. "From when they remodeled the ship." She gazed at them dreamily, as if fantasizing about the heroic life of a captain on the Void Sea, then shook her head at her own folly. "Tell your master that her ladyship likes nice furniture. That's the dining room." She pointed at a doorway, through which I just glimpsed gleaming mahogany chairs upholstered in deep red fabric. "She got that set half a year ago, when she sailed. She'll be wanting to replace it with something fashionable."

Thanking her for her time with perfect sincerity, I returned to the railcar to wait for my crewmates.

* * *

When the two of them got back, their disgruntled expressions said everything about the productivity of their afternoon. The Sensorium, as it turned out, indeed housed an extensive collection of leviathan hunter sailor memories – just not any that were useful to us. As I'd seen with the Clave housekeeper, Doskvolians were morbidly fascinated with the valiant sailors who battled isle-sized sea demons to harvest the blood that powered everything in the city, including the lightning barrier that literally kept us alive. For their part, the gallants themselves were all too eager to purge their memories of having no other human contact for months at a time, while surrounded by an ink-black sky that melded into the ink-black waves, out of which massive tentacles surged at unpredictable intervals, which the heroes would then attempt to spear with harpoons so they could catch the dripping, corrosive blood in specially reinforced steel barrels – all while watching the tentacles tear pieces off their ship and crush their friends to death. A terrifying experience and an indicator of Captain Clave's steel backbone, to be sure, but not relevant to the score.

"Oh my gods," moaned Faith, flopping into my chair as if she lacked the energy to reach her own, "Isha, how could you have been so cruel as to send us there? All the memories were so boring! All I learned was secondhand gossip that Clave runs the _Lancer_ with an iron fist, and her crew is too terrified to interact with her beyond the bare minimum. But I didn't even get to watch her terrorize the crew!" Turning to Ash, she demanded in the same breath, "Did you get anything else? I kept getting tentacled monsters! Tons and tons of tentacled monsters! Plus one purplish-green radiant glowing tentacle that was sort of a cutie – but I don't think that counts."

With an exhausted sigh, Ash confessed, "I got more of the same." He rubbed his temples, then fumbled around in the cabinet for a headache cure. "I'm never going on one of those ships. They're extremely deadly – and also extremely dull." All of a sudden, his eyes lit up in a by-now familiar way. "Although it _is _a very high-risk career…. Maybe there should be an insurance business…."

"Wouldn't you go bankrupt paying out to all the families?" I pointed out. Personally, I couldn't imagine any kind of premium that could offset all the deaths.

"I suppose…." Reluctantly he relinquished his dreams of leviathan sailor life insurance. "What did _you_ learn about Lady Clave's tastes?"

I gave them a quick rundown of what I'd discovered, finishing with, "Some of the ship parts have electroplasmic components. I don't know if we can take advantage of that?"

"Why yes!" cried Faith, bouncing up in her – or rather, my – chair. "Of course we can! Electroplasm explodes so nicely! Actually, you know what explodes even better?" She didn't bother to wait for an answer. "An explosive device!"

Ash looked between her and me, then gulped down his medicine. "Is there a servant – the butler perhaps – who recommends pieces for her to buy?"

"No," I told him regretfully. "She shops in Nightmarket herself. The store delivers the piece the next day."

With a casual shrug, Ash dismissed his own idea. "Ah, that's a little harder, but we'll manage. We can figure out which piece she buys, then rig it to explode before it's delivered. Perhaps we can use a remote trigger?"

Still bouncing up and down, Faith cried, "I believe tradition is to use ghost possession and do horrible things to the victim afterwards!" In a flash, she collapsed like a broken puppet. "But I'm sort of bored of that now. A good, old-fashioned explosion could be just the thing to spice up our scores."

"We had to spend a lot on a tinkerer last time," Ash warned, referring to the electroplasmic device that we'd used to take down the Crows' ghost wards.

Pretending he hadn't spoken, Faith barreled ahead, "We'll add some pink confetti to the bomb!"

Pretending _she _hadn't spoken, I proposed to Ash, "What if the piece Lady Clave buys has a rotor that could go wrong and explode?" That ruled out furniture (unless I'd missed something about contemporary furniture trends while buried in Coalridge and Crow's Foot), so we'd have to focus on naval-themed objets d'art.

"An explosion wouldn't happen accidentally," he objected, "unless it's an extremely experimental piece."

I recalled the paraphernalia in the captain's display cases. "How about a piece of decommissioned ship that wasn't treated properly afterwards?" Too bad I had no idea which bits of leviathan hunters were prone to exploding once removed.

Unfortunately, Ash knew as much about ships as I did. "That's possible?"  
"It could be contaminated by demonic acids! I hear leviathan blood causes…problems in the people it comes in contact with," put in Faith cheerily.

Well, mostly it made them euphoric, and then it gradually transformed them into scaly aquatic monstrosities – if it didn't kill them first. There was a reason the government discouraged leviathan blood drug abuse.

Following his own train of thought, Ash mused, "It's very rare for people to die from explosive artwork in their homes, but I'd love to find a way to make this lethal."

"What if the piece has a bad circuit?" I asked, which basically exhausted my knowledge of electroplasmic devices. "When she turns it on to show her friends, it electrocutes her by accident."

"We don't _have_ to do it in her house," Ash said reluctantly. "Irimina will be in a lot of trouble if we don't get this right."

After we debated whether it would be more or less suspicious for an accident – say, a runaway goat cart – to befall Lady Clave while she was out shopping, Faith settled the matter with a remarkably sensible argument. "It would look _more_ suspicious if something happened to her in Nightmarket. On the one hand, the runaway cart had to be directed at her. On the other hand, she purchased that piece of experimental artwork herself. How could the maker have known exactly what her tastes are, based on her household staff's comments and an analysis of current trends in interior decoration?" She made a pretty little moue. "I hear pink ribbons are in style. Especially after they appeared on the side of an orphanage on a canal."

In my driest tone, I said, "You mean _gamin chic_?"

She burst into giggles.

"I like the idea of explosive artwork," Ash said again. He had to raise his voice to compete with Faith's laughter. "Especially since we could frame the maker – "

It was perhaps evidence of her genuine feelings for Irimina that Faith cut off mid-giggle and immediately reminded him, "Our instructions were explicit. Do not frame anyone."

He sighed. "Fair enough. If this particular artisan were to have several other, minor explosions go off in his work – "

"Let's not get the artist executed," pouted Faith. "I have a thing for innocent artists."

Not to mention that if we got the artist executed, she'd probably feel obligated to find decent homes for all _his_ children too, and Irimina probably didn't want to adopt any more.

In the end, we decided to spy on Lady Clave's shopping expeditions and install an explosive into whatever piece of artwork caught her fancy.

* * *

But first, we needed an explosive. Since Ash balked at hiring the overpriced tinkerer a second time, it fell to me to wrangle a bomb from our only contact with both the resources and possibly the motivation to help.

Dressed as a young middle-class couple, said contact and I met in Jayan Park for a romantic stroll among the glowing toxic trees.

"Sooooo, Sigmund, I had another idea for how to distract the Imperium," I wheedled, making sure to keep my voice low. Any passersby would assume that I was trying to cajole my doting husband into buying a particularly expensive piece of jewelry that might very well bankrupt us.

Tipping his head very slightly to one side – a signature gesture he should really squash – my brother raised both eyebrows. "What is it this time, dear?" His tone managed to convey affection, exasperation, and trepidation all at the same time.

He wasn't really pretending.

Flirtatiously, I slipped my arm through his and tugged him towards an arbor overgrown with spiky vines. "My crew is going to blow up a leviathan hunter captain!"

"A _what_, dear?" He frowned and pursed his lips, the very picture of an accountant balancing his annual budget. More quietly, he asked, "What's your cover?" When I didn't answer immediately, he prompted, "Obviously, Iruvia did not blow up this captain. So what story are you planting? Who gets blamed?"

"No one. It will be an accident." Another couple ambled towards us, and we squeezed to the side of the path to let them pass. "Oooh, look, isn't that bush pretty?" I squealed, pointing at random.

"Don't touch that, dear! It'll kill you!" Sigmund grabbed my arm and exchanged a commiserating masculine eyeroll with the other young man. Then he towed me down the path, muttering under his breath, "We could make more hay out of this."

"It will be a tragic, tragic accident," I said before I could stop myself. Well, at least I hadn't said "a tragic, terrible accident," which was probably what Faith would have gone for. "Afterwards, the ship will go to someone wildly unsuited for the job."

Sigmund's silence summarized his opinion of my so-called distraction for the Imperium.

"It's either that person – or a sixteen-year-old child. So I _suspect_ the Lord Governor is going to have an opinion on the matter. And the City Council. And the courts. And the newspapers."

At that, he blinked, acknowledging the point. "Yes, but I still think we can make more hay out of this. We can frame someone like – " he cast about for an effective scapegoat – "Ulf Ironborn," he finished triumphantly. Lately, the big Skovlander had been stepping up his attacks on businesses that discriminated against his countrymen, and the newspapers were shrieking about domestic terrorism.

"I like that idea," I said cautiously, "but unfortunately one of the parameters of this assignment is to make it look like an accident."

In response, I got a scathing glare, as if I should have wriggled out of such constraining parameters. But finally, as we neared the far end of the park, Sigmund reluctantly assented. "I can get you something." Then he grabbed my arm and forced me to face him. With deadly intensity, he ordered, "This _cannot _trace back to Iruvia."

"It won't," I snapped, insulted.

Releasing me, he stalked ahead. "I don't know how I am going to explain this to the Patriarch, but I will figure that out later."

I had to hitch up my skirts and half-run a few steps to catch up. "Tell him you're inciting internal turmoil in Akoros to distract the Imperium from…its plans."

Although he slowed to match my pace, my brother didn't meet my eyes. "That's only sort of my mandate."

Right. Because his primary mandate was to recover Grandfather and kill me, and his secondary mandate was to spur Skovlan to rebel. Helping his wayward sister wrangle a pardon from House leadership didn't exactly make the list.

"Think of it this way," I coaxed, "you're taking the initiative."

He drew a deep breath, then let it out very slowly. "I'll get you your bomb, Signy." From his tone, that subject was closed.

Figuring that anything else I said would only push him to revoke his aid, I batted my eyelashes at him and said sweetly, "Thanks, brother."

He didn't answer, but he did drop an absent kiss on my forehead. Then he attached himself to a group of Charterhall University students who were sketching trees for some botany class, drifted around a bend in the path, and vanished.

A couple days later, I found a palm-sized bomb in one of our dead drops.


	59. Captain Clave

Right on schedule, the leviathan hunter fleet returned, unleashing a whirl of festivities all over Doskvol. After attending a welcome banquet at the Lord Governor's stronghold in Whitecrown, the captains dispersed to their own homes to partake of loving family reunions – or shopping expeditions, in the case of Lady Clave.

Ash, Faith, and I had already thoroughly reconnoitered upscale Nightmarket furnishing stores before focusing on a clockmaker with a "Wanted: Seasonal Help" sign in his window, a job I got on the spot. For his part, Ash identified nearby toy and candy stores, then trained the Insect Kids to mimic middle-class children on a holiday outing. As for Faith, she darted from shop window to shop window, gushing over the displays and giving the perfect impression of an air-headed socialite while finding a good vantage point to monitor passersby.

Thus, when Lady Clave sallied forth in her goat-drawn carriage, we were ready.

* * *

The week after the leviathan hunter fleet returned to port was always a city-wide holiday. For the middle class and nobility, that was. The dockers had to unload the ships, junior clerks had to process extra paperwork, and storekeepers had to work extra shifts to accommodate all the shoppers. As Doskvol's premier commercial district, Nightmarket was thronged with pedestrians and goat-drawn carriages that fought their way through the crowds.

Outside the clockmaker's shop, I was taking my time polishing the big glass window while keeping an eye out for our target. In the furniture store next door, Faith lounged on a sofa and gesticulated enthusiastically at the proprietor, who gaped at her as if he'd never seen anything like her and had no idea what to do now that he had. (Pretend she didn't exist was the correct response, but obviously not one he'd come to quite yet.) Somewhere in the crowd, Ash was disguised as a panhandler with a crude sign that read, "Plees help the sailors."

A little Severosi boy in a sailor suit broke out of the crowd and sprinted by, nearly crashing into me – Mantis, signaling Captain Clave's arrival. "Sorry, miss!" he shouted over his shoulder.

"Careful, young master!" I called as he vanished. Stepping back into the shop, I started polishing the clocks in the window display.

Moments later, down Wood Street processed Captain Clave. Despite the horde on the street, her scowl and her military gait cleared a bubble around her and made it easier for the Insect Kids to track her. Innocent and adorable in their sailor suits, frilly dresses, and giant floppy hair ribbons, our little pack sauntered after the target. Here, they bought little flags from a street vendor; there, they bickered amiably over whether they should get candied mushrooms or mushroom pastries. From time to time, one of them would disappear briefly to report to Ash.

Unfortunately, the captain's instincts told her that she was being tailed, even though her eyes skipped over the Insect Kids every time she scanned the crowd. Suspicious and on edge, she marched into and out of a few furniture stores as if checking them off a list, before she finally settled down enough to buy a new parlor set in the shop across the street. Still scrubbing away furiously at the clocks, I tensed in anticipation.

But when she came out, instead of striding towards me, she turned on her heel and headed for her carriage.

Dropping my rag, I bustled out of the shop and hailed her. "Captain! Captain Clave!"

At my call, she stiffened and spun around, ready to shoot any attackers.

I sank into a wobbly curtsey. "Captain Clave, milady! Begging yer pardon, but we spoke to your housekeeper about what you might like! My master put together a selection that might interest you." It was a bit on the forward side, for sure, but I thought that a half-trained temporary shop girl on the verge of losing a valuable customer might well act forwardly.

Although Captain Clave hesitated for a moment and raked me up and down with her hard, dead eyes, she admitted to herself, "I _was_ considering picking up a new clock." She thought for another second, then made an executive decision. "Show me what you have." Barely giving me time to scurry ahead and open the door for her, she stalked into the shop and planted herself in the center of the room, surveying all the clocks.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ash materialize and begin brandishing his sign and shouting about helping shell-shocked sailors. The crowd around him miraculously drained away. Shoppers studiously avoided even glancing in his direction, and mothers pulled their children close and hustled them to the other side of the street.

Still playing the timid shop girl, I bobbed another nervous curtsey at Captain Clave and gestured at a settee. "Milady, won't you have a seat while I bring you some refreshments?"

Without bothering to glance at me, she did, her back ramrod straight as she scrutinized an array of grandfather clocks. I ducked into the back room, where the clockmaker, an absentminded, grandfatherly type, was hunched over a delicate repair. As I passed with a tray of tea and cakes, he blinked up at me and asked, confused, "Customer, Mara?"

"Yes, sir. Never you worry, sir, I'll take care of her," I assured him.

"Mmm. Good." His attention had already returned to the tiny gears he was fitting into a clockwork music box.

I made sure to shut the door tight behind me.

In my absence, Captain Clave had discovered the collection of marine chronometers, which ranged in size from a pocket watch to a coffee table. Hands planted on her hips, she loomed over them until I coaxed her back onto the settee. Then I brought over nautical-related clocks one at a time, sliding easily into a shop girl's patter about the merits and artistry of each.

She completely tuned me out and examined the pieces for herself.

In the distance, Ash's shouts were growing louder, as if he were slowly making his way down the street. "Please help the sailors! You must think of the sailors!"

Like a herd of goats he was driving along, all the shoppers were walking more quickly than usual, barely even glancing into the shop windows. Across the street, the furniture store door opened a crack, and the proprietor peered out uneasily. Captain Clave, however, acted as if she ignored background shouting all the time (which, come to think of it, she probably had to on her ship).

Cutting me off mid-sentence, she stabbed a thick, scarred finger at a restored antique maritime chronometer. Nearly the size of a coffee table, it nestled in a gleaming wooden case with inlaid patterns – just the sort of piece that a leviathan hunter captain might want to display in her home or even on her ship. "I want this." Her voice held no emotion whatsoever.

"Of course!" I gushed. "An excellent choice, milady!"

She tuned that out too, as a waste of her time. "Have it delivered to my house tomorrow morning."

"Yes, of course – "

She slammed down a card with her address, stood, and strode out the door, which slammed behind her with a discordant jangle of bells.

" – milady," I finished weakly. Only then did I allow myself a tiny smirk.

Stooping, I awkwardly wrapped my arms around the marine chronometer and made a show of struggling with the weight. Acting as if I might drop it at any moment, I staggered towards the storeroom where we kept pieces in preparation for delivery.

If all had gone according to plan, my crewmates should have swung into action as soon as Captain Clave stepped back onto the street. And indeed, the bells on the front door tinkled merrily and Faith swirled in. With a wink in my direction, she sang out gaily, "Yoohooooo! Is anyone there?"

A scrape of chair legs and footsteps in the back room indicated that the clockmaker was going to investigate. I hastily shut the storeroom door.

"Yoohoooo!" Faith's shrill tones pierced the wood beautifully. "Are you the creator of these charming clocks?"

"Er…yes, miss?"

"Then I must congratulate such a clever craftsman!"

Leaving the clockmaker to his fate, I unscrewed the back of the marine chronometer, slid the bomb out of my pocket, and stared blankly at the wires and dangly bits. My brother hadn't included any instructions for how to install it, and all I knew was that I needed to hook it up to the clock's winding mechanism. Whatever that meant.

Let's see. That handle on the outside of the case should be for winding, which meant that whatever internal bits moved when I turned it should be part of the winding mechanism, right?

Outside the shop, Ash's voice bellowed, "Why is everyone ignoring their plight? This is the depravity of Doskvol! No one cares about the sailors! _I_ will make a stand for them!"

Good, my other crewmate was also in place, scaring off potential customers.

"Save one of the orphans who was abandoned by his family!" I could just picture one of the Insect Kids – probably Locust – dressed in rags and cringing into Ash's legs while he placed a protective hand on the child's shoulder. "Won't you think of the children?"

Apart from his roaring, the street had gone deathly still, so it sounded like crowd control was going well.

As opposed to bomb installation.

Untwisting a pair of wires that had snarled in my pocket, I glared at the device some more. Was I supposed to connect some of the wires to themselves? To the clock gears? The clock case? Seriously, would it have killed Sigmund to include a set of instructions? At this point, I could think of only one tutor who definitely knew how to set bombs and didn't want the bomb traced back to Iruvia any more than Sigmund or I did.

Surrendering to the inevitable, I reached out with my mind and muttered, _Grandfather, will you help me?_

Instantly, wisps of black smoke twisted before my eyes. As if he'd been hovering over my shoulder the whole time, just waiting to see if I'd turn to him, Grandfather directed, _Insert the explosive device into the cavity – careful! Don't catch that wire – _

Too late. The dangling end of one wire snagged on a brass decoration and yanked. Something inside the bomb gave a little click, and an ominous ticking filled the storeroom.

_Don't panic. Just ease it out, child, slowly, slowly, easy does it…._

Willing my hands not to shake, I inched the bomb back out of the clock – only for a different wire tangle around a gear. The ticking grew faster and faster.

_Granddaughter! It's going to explode!_

_ I _know_!_

Panicking, I clutched all of the bomb's dangly bits in one fist and ripped them out.

The ticking cut off.

Blessed, blessed silence in the storeroom.

_That wouldn't have been my first suggestion…but it appears to have worked, _was Grandfather's calm assessment.

I barely registered the reproof. Squeezing my eyes shut, I breathed shakily, in and out, in and out, until my heartrate returned to some semblance of normal. When I'd finally stopped quivering, I stared in dismay at the mess. What was I going to do now? We'd never failed on a score before, and I certainly didn't want to confess to my crewmates, _Oh, by the way, I broke the bomb, so we've wasted a week of preparations and will have to come up with an entirely different way to kill Captain Clave now…._ They wouldn't take it well. And neither would Irimina.

But it only got worse. Out in the front room, the clockmaker reached a sudden epiphany. "You're not planning to buy anything, are you, miss? Mara? Mara, where are you? Can you watch the store?" His footsteps approached the storeroom where I sat with a partially disassembled clock and incriminating bomb components in my lap.

"That's a gun!" Faith shrieked. "Watch out! He has a gun! Get behind cover!"

That ear-piercing scream was followed by a patter of slippered feet and a very loud thump, as if Faith had made a flying leap across the room and tackled the clockmaker to the floor.

"Stay down!" she screeched. "Stay down!"

"We have to call the Bluecoats!" he gasped.

"Shhh! Don't let him hear you!"

She must have signaled Ash through the window, because a split second later, panicked yelling filled the street. "Gun! Gun! He has a gun!" "This way!" "Run!" "Get out of my way!" Far in the distance, whistles began to shrill.

Ash's voice faded very slightly, as if he'd moved directly into the path of the fleeing shoppers so he could grab and shake them. "Here, you! Yes, _you_!" he howled. "Think of the children! Why won't any of you_ think of the children_?"

It was Grandfather who snapped me out of my trance. _Let's try again, granddaughter_, he advised_. Steady, steady…._

With a great deal more patience than expected, he talked me through repairing the bomb, inserting it into the clock, and hooking the trigger to the winding mechanism.

_There, all done._ With something like a pat on my head, his smoke wisps evaporated.

Too tense to feel annoyed, I screwed on the back of the clock case, wrapped it tidily with brown paper and string, and wrote out a delivery label in loopy schoolgirl handwriting. Then, at last, I sagged against the wall.

Outside, the Bluecoats must have pushed their way through the stampede to confront Ash, because he was demanding imperiously, "_You_ understand, right, officers? Only _you_ can understand the horrors of what I've been through on the Void Sea!"

Feigning terror, I cracked open the storeroom door and peeked out. One Bluecoat had Ash by the arm, while the other stood about five feet away.

"Calm down, sir, just calm down," advised the latter, his tone indicating that he didn't make nearly enough to risk his life subduing madmen.

"Of course! I'm perfectly calm, officer!" roared Ash, making both Bluecoats jump.

"He don't even have a gun," complained the other Bluecoat, probably the junior partner, who got to risk _his _life patting down madmen. He sounded incredibly peeved at the civilians who'd caused a riot over nothing and interrupted their peaceful mid-afternoon patrol.

"You'll have to come with us, sir," the senior Bluecoat droned.

"Why of course!" Flinging aside his "Plees help the sailors" sign and radiating goodwill, Ash stuck out his wrists for the junior Bluecoat to handcuff. "I'm so proud of your service! You keep the streets so safe!" His voice faded away as these fine officers of the law bore him off to their precinct for a few hours of paperwork. Neither one noticed the tiny shadows creeping after them. The Insect Kids would make sure Ash got out safely.

After another few minutes of quaking on the floor, the clockmaker creaked to his feet and extended a hand to help Faith up. "Miss, perhaps we should continue this conversation at a later date."

She made a show of patting down her skirts and brushing imaginary dust off them. (As if there'd be any dust on floors _I'd _swept!) In a perfectly sincere voice, she replied, "Yes, of course, I'm just glad you're all right."

Unseen, I rolled my eyes. I didn't even need Ash to tell me she was lying.

The clockmaker nodded at her, jerkily. "You too, miss."

The door banged shut behind her.

Tiptoeing out of the storeroom, I twisted my hands together and quavered, "Sir, is – is it safe now?"

Still dazed from his encounter with my crewmates, the poor clockmaker was rubbing his temples. "Yes," he replied absently. "I think…I think I'm going to close up early today. Go spend some time with your family. I'll see you tomorrow morning." From his morose tone, he wasn't expecting much need for my presence – because he already knew that no one would dare shop in Nightmarket for the rest of Fleet Week.

Although I considered feigning a nervous breakdown and quitting immediately, I decided that it would be less suspicious to work for a few more days. By then, Fleet Week was almost over, with no signs of holiday business returning to normal, and the clockmaker was hunting for excuses to let me go anyway.

* * *

The next evening, our crew was relaxing in the railcar common room when Cricket shot through a window and spun around Faith in excitement. "It's in her parlor!" she squealed. "The captain lady put the clock in her parlor! Can I eat now? Can I eat now?"

"Not yet, dear," chided Faith, petting the ghost's head. "Go back, haunt the place, and make sure that no one else tries to wind it. Report back when Clave does. Then I'll feed you."

"Okay!" Cricket streaked off again.

We settled back down to wait, Ash using the time to design a new game for the orphans. "I'm calling it 'The Slide and the Constabulary,'" he explained to us. "I'll split them up into groups of three. One of them will play the Slide, and the other two will play the Bluecoats. The rest of the class will judge the Slide on how well they lie."

A useful exercise indeed, and one which he'd already modeled for the Insect Kids.

* * *

When Cricket returned a few hours later, she literally glowed with anticipation. "The clock exploded!" she sang out, dancing around Faith in a blur of blue light. "The captain lady is de-ead!"

"Excellent!" pronounced Ash. "I'm only sorry we weren't there to see it."

Cricket slowed slightly. "It was pretty gruesome," she informed him, sounding faintly impressed. "There were little bits everywhere."

At that, Faith bounded to her feet. "I think this is cause to celebrate, dear Cricket," she announced. "I'll take you out to dinner. What do you think of Six Towers?"

In answer, the little ghost darted for the door. "Did you know she was Hive?"

Faith stopped short in the middle of the room. Ash sat bolt upright. I stiffened.

"I take it that's a no," chirped Cricket. "She had, like, a bee on her back, so I assumed…."

"That's a good assumption," Faith told her. Putting on a fake disapproving scowl, she scolded, "Now, Cricket, when did _you_ get involved with the Hive?"

The ghost pouted back at her. "I was never involved with the Hive."

"How did you know about the bee, then?"

"Everyone knows about the bees!" the former child thief retorted. "You keep way, way away from the bees. That's how you know who not to rob."

With a careless shrug, Faith said cheerily, "Well, in this case, you pay attention to the bees because that's how you know whom to explode. We do things a little bit differently, once you're dead." Ruffled sleeve flapping, she made a shooing gesture. "Off we go! Unless you want to feed off one of the orphans? We have a lot of them around…."

Cricket hesitated, undecided.

"_Faith_," Ash warned.

Casting an impish grin in his direction, Faith ushered the ghost out the door.

Trying to sound neutral, I observed, "We're getting in deeper and deeper with the Hive."

"We've only killed two of them. I mean three. Vhetin Kellis, Skannon Vale, and now Lady Clave." For once, Ash sounded genuinely unconcerned by the exact number. "I assume Faith has checked that Irimina isn't a member herself. Although, honestly, we'd be better off if it were someone within the Hive assassinating her way up, than a lowly smuggler tangling with the Hive by accident. We'll all be in huge trouble if this ever gets traced back to us."

That was true, since the Hive wouldn't be inclined to forgive a crew that picked off its members, even if it were by accident rather than design. Still, I didn't mind whittling down their numbers, which increased the Lampblacks and Red Sashes' chance of pushing it out of Crow's Foot and the Docks.

Unfortunately, Hive leadership analyzed the situation and drew the same conclusion.

* * *

Early next morning, someone frantically pounded on each of the railcar doors in turn until I tumbled out of bed, grabbed Grandfather, and flung my window open.

Wide-eyed and terrified, Bug thrust a scrap of handbill into my hand, whirled, and dashed off without even waiting for a tip. He practically bowled over a Red Sash runner, who looked just as panicked. She also shoved a letter at me and sprinted away.

Frowning after them, I shut the window and examined the scrap of paper. It had been torn from one of the advertisements that people stuck on the wall of the Leaky Bucket. Flipping it over, I almost failed to recognize Bazso's handwriting. "Hive killed Pickett last night. Be careful."

My entire body went cold. In front of my eyes rose the scene – Bazso in his usual booth, sipping his morning whiskey and frowning at Pickett's empty seat; a Lampblack racing into the pub to shriek out the news; Bazso cursing, snatching up his hat, and rushing for the door with the other Lampblacks, pausing just long enough to rip off a piece of handbill and scrawl a warning to me.

Numbly, I looked down at the other message. It was a sealed letter, using the thick cream stationery that Mylera favored. As if I were far, far away, I broke the seal and unfolded it to see her elegant handwriting, just the slightest bit shaky.

_Isha,_

she began, and that slip alone told me how rattled she was. In anything that could be intercepted or stolen, she normally addressed me as Glass.

_Last night Xayah was killed by Hive assassins. We have not yet decided how to respond. Watch your back._

– _M_

I slammed the letter down the table.

Oh, I already knew exactly how I was going to respond.

And it had nothing to do with watching my back.


	60. Mourning

Crumpling the notes in my hand, I frantically flung on street clothes, cursing at all the layers I needed to survive Doskvolian winters. By the time I stormed into the hall (leaving my room as much of a mess as if Faith had rummaged through it), my crewmates were already breakfasting in the common room.

"Hmm," Ash was musing over his mug of coffee, "isn't it strange how everyone who's irritated Irimina also turns out to be a member of the Hive?"

Faith popped up from behind the bar, her special pink-rose-patterned china teacup in hand, her pink-lipsticked lips a perfect O of delight. "Are you saying that Irimina has good taste in enemies? I'll note that Irimina has good taste in _many_ things." She helped herself to coffee, strutted back across the room, hopped onto the table, and simpered down at him.

Excavating his notebook from under a thick layer of ruffles, he replied pragmatically, "Yes, well, I'd really prefer for us or our orphans not to be picked off in the middle of the night – because if we keep accidentally murdering the Hive, that's what will happen."

Given what _had_ happened last night in Crow's Foot, his comment was a little too apt.

I snarled, "How about instead of accidentally murdering them, we do it intentionally and wipe out as much of the inner circle as we can?" Stalking over to them, I slammed down the two notes with a bang that rocked the table. Ash grabbed his mug before the coffee could slosh onto his notebook, while Faith faked a little squeak and jump, then pouted ferociously, silently reproaching me for setting a bad example for the children she'd banned from the room anyway. "Look what they did!"

"Ooooh!" squealed Faith. Like a schoolgirl teasing a friend about a potential beau, she inquired slyly, "The Hive sent you _letters_?"

"No!" I shook them at her. "This one is from Bazso; this one is from Mylera."

Setting his mug far away from me, Ash reached for the notes, but Faith snatched them first and scanned the lines before tossing them to him. As he read, a troubled frown grew on his face.

"I want to take out Djera Maha," I informed them, voice taut. "I want to take out the entire Hive."

To my surprise, it was the part-demon forgotten god cultist bent on destroying the Church of the Ecstasy of the Flesh who objected. "Isha, taking out the head of the Crows was one thing. If we try to take out the head of the Hive, we will likely die."

His attitude made absolutely no sense. "I'm not suggesting we do it without preparation!"

Ash only shook his head. "This would be an epic score. I guess I'm not opposed, but…." He groped for the right words to calm and convince me – as if any existed! "I would also prefer to remain alive," he said at last. "If the Hive even gets wind that we're planning anything, we'll be dead before moonrise."

Entirely unappeased, I snapped, "Then we don't let them get wind that we're planning anything. We have two Slides and a Whisper. I think we can do it."

He just cast a helpless look at Faith, of all people.

Relishing her new role as the voice of reason, she leaped to his rescue. "Wait, wait, wait – back up for a sec?" Knitting her brows in a caricature of confusion, she inquired, "_Why_ are we doing this? Who's paying us?"

Automatically, the answer tumbled from Ash's mouth: "I'm sure the Lampblacks and Red Sashes could be convinced to pay us dearly." Abruptly recalling that he was supposed to be talking me _out _of this suicidal scheme, he quickly tacked on an unconvincing, "Except we can't even _ask _them without some chance that word will get back to the Hive."

Playing Ash for all she was worth, Faith pursed her lips, rolled her eyes ceiling-ward, and pretended to run through some financial calculations. "So…_nobody_ is paying us."

I'd had more than enough of petty pecuniary concerns. What was the point of having coin stashed away if I never used it? After all, I could always make more. "If necessary, _I _will pay us. And since when did you become so money-oriented, Faith?" I demanded, making it sound like a slur.

"Yes!" agreed Ash, making it sound like high praise.

All of the ruffles and lacy layers on Faith's bodice literally puffed up in indignation. "I have so _many_ things to spend money on! Schoolbooks for these young orphans – "

"You already bought them," I retorted. If I recalled correctly, she'd spent an entire coin on a library for the orphanage, much to Ash's pain. (Even if it hadn't come out of his personal stash or the crew's coffers.)

Overriding me, Faith continued to rattle off her basic necessities of life: "Decorations, new ribbons, ongoing fees for these incredibly expensive fencing classes I'm having them take – "

I could have grabbed her and shaken her. Here I was, trying to get the crew started on an intricate plot to destroy an Imperium-wide criminal organization with connections to the Church of Ecstasy, the government, and the aristocracy, and Faith was being so – well, _Faith_. "You already paid for them! When you took down the ribbons canal-side!"

Slanting a smile at me, Faith flung out her arms dramatically. "So many wild expenses! They just add up!"

At this point, our usual peacemaker deemed it wisest to interject, "I'm sure we could get paid a lot for this, but – "

Faith didn't let him finish. "And _when_ you find someone to pay us for this, then I'll be in on it!"

I exploded, "I already told the two of you – I'm willing to pay!"

"Is this a 'you're actually willing to pay,' or is this an Ash-style 'you're willing to pay – until it actually becomes an option'?" she countered, somehow contriving to insult both of us at the same time.

Doggedly refusing to take offense, Ash sighed deeply. "I assume this is a genuine offer," he said before I actually did grab Faith and shake her. "Isha, how about we plan this, but not today?" he temporized. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm not opposed, but we _have_ gotten in over our heads several times."

And each time, we'd hauled ourselves back out with no (permanent) damage to ourselves, while garnering a great deal more respect in the Doskvolian underworld in the process. Unwilling to accept his compromise, I argued, "We've already made a good start killing off the Hive. We might as well continue."

Faith cut me off with a long, deafening, high-pitched yawn. Once she had our full attention, she murmured, "_I_ was under the impression that this Hive is a wide-spanning crime syndicate with semi-independent cells in all the major cities, and complicated internal structures that may or may not even be located in Doskvol itself."

To punctuate her conclusion, she took a sip of coffee, making sure her pinky stuck straight up from the teacup.

Before I could launch into a good counterargument, Ash cut in. "Take out Djera Maha, and someone else will come to power. That person will wonder who _else_ will attack them now. They will investigate, and they will trace it back to us – all of us – effortlessly."

As much as I hated to admit it, both of them had a point. With its decentralized nature and its close ties to organs of government, the Hive would be almost as hard to eradicate as Faith's love for frilly, pink things. "Fine," I snapped. "Then we start from the bottom. We slowly erode Djera Maha's support base."

Frustrated that he still wasn't getting across to me, Ash released a sharp breath. "It would be _very_ poetic to take out her second-in-command – "

Faith immediately pointed out, "Unfortunately, that's Karth Orris, and he's already dead!"

"Yes, but wouldn't he have a replacement?" Ash reminded her logically.

Almost certainly, but none of us knew who it was. Given that I'd used the Hive threat to unify the Lampblacks and Red Sashes, I of all people should have monitored it closely and had that information at my fingertips. Covering my chagrin, I relented. "I'm not saying we have to do this immediately, but – "

Ash finished, "But it's something we will likely want to do." I nodded at him gratefully, and he added practically, "I also think we can charge more than eight coin for it."

"Perhaps we can start by investigating the basic structure of the Hive, pinpointing the key players, and identifying _their _enemies," I suggested.

"That's a good idea," Ash replied, "although the letters you just showed us already suggest two key enemies."

"They must have more."

Surely any powerful faction would engender its fair share of powerful opponents, and the more complete our understanding of these connections, the greater our chances of executing a quick, clean strike.

Or strikes, if necessary.

"All right, Isha. I'll help you," Ash promised. "Faith?"

"I'll pass. My nails need to be repainted a slightly lighter shade of pink," she explained sweetly, splaying out her fingers like claws for us to admire. "Besides, I wouldn't dream of stealing all your glory!"

And just like that, we were committed to enacting poetic justice on one of the most formidable criminal organizations in the Imperium – or at least its Doskvolian chapter.

* * *

As much as I chafed to start hunting the Hive at once, I needed to check on my friends first. While Bazso and Pickett's relationship had never progressed beyond the professional, they'd worked together since before Bazso came to power, and he'd trusted her implicitly. In many ways, Pickett had functioned as an extension of his will, silently handling part of his duties with understated and usually uncredited competence. As far as I could tell, she'd harbored no secret ambitions and advised him with no ulterior motives. (Which, to be honest, was more than I could say for myself.) I couldn't imagine the Lampblacks without her. I couldn't imagine _Bazso _without her. There was simply no one else in the gang who could even begin to replace her.

Alternating between a jog and a sprint, skidding over icy patches on the cobblestones, I made it to the Leaky Bucket in record time. Although the Lampblacks had relaxed their guard after consolidating control of Crow's Foot, Pickett's and Xayah's murders had ratchetted them back into full wartime mode. Now grim, heavily-armed scoundrels in black overcoats were looming in front of the pub and patrolling the surrounding streets, practically screaming their defiance. _Just try attacking us now_, they seemed to roar. _Please try attacking us now!_

Inside, the Leaky Bucket was packed to capacity with dazed men and women, many of them tear-streaked, all of them drinking with determination. When they spoke at all, it was in hushed tones, as at a funeral. The only civilians present were those with ties to the gang, the rest of the Crow's Foot citizenry having opted to avoid the Lampblack haunt for now. Automatically, my eyes skimmed over the tables and darted to the back corner where the Lampblack leaders held court.

Bazso's booth was empty.

My heart nearly stopped.

I'd have heard, wouldn't I, if something had happened to him? Surely, even in all the chaos, _someone_ would have sent a runner, right?

Desperately, I scanned the room in case he was at one of the tables, mingling with his people, and then scanned it again more slowly, studiously avoiding Pickett's empty booth. At the bar slumped Henner, head in hands, haunted and miserable. Hovering over him was Mardin, speaking in a low, urgent voice and perhaps exhorting him to live up to his new role as Lampblack second-in-command.

I cut across the pub towards them, very deliberately turning my back on Pickett's booth. So many times, I'd walked into the Leaky Bucket and pointedly refused to look at that booth. It seemed unreal that I'd never again twist my neck at unnatural angles to avoid acknowledging her existence, never again accidentally glance in the wrong direction at the wrong time to catch her piercing, icy eyes fixed on me. Alone among the Lampblacks, Pickett had always known what I was.

How could anyone live up to the bar she had set?

My footsteps had brought me to the counter and her successor's dejected figure.

"Henner," I greeted him awkwardly. How did you offer condolences on the death of someone with whom you'd had such a famous antipathy? Would any of the Lampblacks even believe me, or would they consider it ill-timed, ill-advised mockery? "Henner, I'm so sorry."

Pickett would have raked me with a unbelieving glare while she assessed my sincerity.

Henner, on the other hand, trusted his boss' girlfriend to share his grief. "Yeah," he mumbled without looking up. "Yeah, me too."

"Henner," I said, trying to keep the anxiety from my voice, "where's Bazso?"

"At home," he muttered. "He didn't take Pickett's – " He choked, unable to force out the words. "He didn't take it well."

Bazso was all right, then. I practically crumpled with relief. "I'm sorry," I repeated. Since Henner didn't seem inclined to talk, I turned to Mardin and asked quietly, "What happened?"

The bartender's face hardened, and suddenly I could see the faction leader and ward boss he'd once been. Clenching his fists, he spat, "Djera Maja's favorite hitmen happened."

"Her nephews, Wayan and Kuwat Maha," supplied a nearby Lampblack, rousing herself and shoving her empty glass back across the counter. Mardin sloshed whiskey into it, uncharacteristically slopping liquid over the rim.

Henner lifted his head at last and stared at me without actually seeing me. "They ambushed her," he said slowly, as if he still couldn't quite believe it. "On the street. A block from home. She fought well." Of course she had. It was Pickett. "But – there were two of them. And they're really big. Dagger Islanders, you know? They shot her."

"In full view of witnesses," grated Mardin, who as leader of the Crows must have had his own run-ins with Djera Maha. "So everyone knows who did it and learns never to cross the Hive."

Recalling Ash's concerns, I winced. The Hive's bullying tactics had had exactly the desired effect on my crewmate. Striving for casualness, I inquired, "Do these two hitmen live in Crow's Foot, then?"

I couldn't fool Mardin. He just leveled a stare at me that said he knew exactly what I wanted to do and had seen plenty of better fighters try, fail, and die, but he recognized that I wouldn't believe him until I'd also tried, failed, and possibly was on the verge of dying, so he wasn't going to waste his breath talking me out of it. Voice flat, he answered, "No. Her nephews most likely live on the Hive's island. In the middle of North Hook Channel."

That was the broad body of water that insulated Whitecrown and its elite from the rest of the city. After growing up a street urchin in the Dagger Isles (assuming the Dagger Isles were technologically advanced enough to lay streets, that was), Djera Maha had arrived in Doskvol as a nobody and murdered her way up through the Hive. Astride the Doskvolian chapter at last, allied closely with the Ministry of Preservation and the Church of Ecstasy, with her tentacles and suckers entangled throughout the aristocracy, she'd deemed herself above a home in mere Brightstone. However, when she'd moved to purchase a mansion in Whitecrown, the nobles had closed ranks to deny access to a lowborn Dagger Islander upstart. In a face-saving compromise, the City Council had then offered her a tiny island in the middle of North Hook Channel "to honor her island roots."

Thwarted and furious, she'd promptly fortified it and transformed it into a miniature citadel, right on the doorstep of the Lord Governor's stronghold. It was a daily reminder of the Hive's invincibility (and infinite ingenuity).

I didn't like it.

Abruptly, I asked the Lampblacks, "What does Bazso plan to do?"

"Don't know yet. He's at home," Henner repeated. "You…you should go to him."

Although he might have been trying to get rid of me so he could return to brooding, his tone suggested otherwise, so I hurried out of the pub. As a sign of how rattled I was, I jogged practically all the way to Bazso's old townhouse before I remembered that he'd moved – that I'd helped him move, in fact. Cursing under my breath, I spun around and backtracked across half of Crow's Foot to get to his new place. There I found heavily-armed Lampblacks patrolling the neighborhood and Bazso himself slumped morosely on a sofa, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of him. An empty one lay at his feet. Around the sitting room hovered several anxious gang members, torn between deferring to their leader and rescuing him from alcohol poisoning. Faint relief crossed their faces when I entered.

With a quick nod at them, I perched on the sofa next to Bazso.

He didn't even glance up.

Cautiously, I edged closer and, when he still didn't react, placed a hand on his back and rubbed it soothingly.

Still without looking at me, he stirred and rumbled, "You didn't even like her. And she certainly didn't like you."

It wasn't an accusation, but a statement of fact. An expectant hush filled the sitting room, the other Lampblacks curious to hear my response.

I didn't bother to protest or defend myself. No, Pickett hadn't liked me at all, and everyone knew it. And I hadn't liked her either, and everyone knew that too. But I'd never wanted her dead, and I was almost positive she'd felt the same way about me. We had respected each other, if nothing else.

At last, I said simply, "We knew where we stood with each other." In my line of work, it was something to be valued. To be appreciated. Treasured, even.

It was the right response. Accepting my answer, Bazso sank back into silence.

After a moment, I looked around at the exhausted, grieving Lampblacks and offered, "If you want to go home and rest, I can take care of him."

They exchanged quick glances, vacillating between giving the two of us some privacy and leaving their leader near-defenseless. "We'll be outside if you need anything," one of them replied, and they withdrew outside the townhouse. Through a crack in the curtains, I watched them take up guard positions in the yard.

In the end, Bazso and I didn't say much of anything to each other. But I put my arms around him, and he relaxed against me, and together we mourned wordlessly for our lost comrade.

* * *

I stayed with him until the very last minute before my fencing class, then sprinted all the way to the sword academy. Although a blank-faced Ardashir occupied Xayah's desk in the main office and ensured that lessons proceeded as usual, the rest of the Red Sashes wore the same dazed, haunted expressions as the Lampblacks. Catching the general mood, my students tended towards distracted and clumsy, and I dismissed them early before they could add themselves – or me – to the casualty list.

As soon as they skittered into the courtyard to trade rumors, I bolted upstairs in search of Mylera. Here, as at Bazso's townhouse, the gang was on high alert. Ardashir had stationed heavily-armed sword masters every few feet along the hallway, within easy reach of the semi-decorative weighted sashes draped over the bannisters. At Mylera's office, a pair of stone-faced guards stopped me. While one kept a sharp eye on me lest the erstwhile Lampblack spy reveal herself to be a Hive assassin, the other rapped out a staccato pattern on the door.

"What?" growled Mylera's voice. Even muffled by the wood, it still sounded slightly _clogged_. "I _told_ you I didn't want to be disturbed."

Although the Red Sash cringed a little, he reported bravely, "Glass here to see you, ma'am."

"Who – oh, Glass." Her chair gave a familiar creak as her weight lifted off it. "Yes, send her in."

By the time I entered, Mylera was pacing back and forth behind her desk with her head angled so I couldn't see her face. Without turning, she waved me impatiently towards the chairs, paced a couple more steps, hesitated for a half-beat, and stuttered to a stop in front of the window, like a Nightmarket toy running out of electroplasm. If she'd been thinking clearly, she'd have realized that the blurry reflection in the glass would betray her devastated, broken expression.

Out of respect, I dropped my gaze and busied myself selecting a seat. "Mylera, I'm so sorry," I murmured.

Catching myself scanning her desk out of sheer habit, I reined myself in, but not before I noted a heap of black-bordered envelopes. Only a handful had been addressed so far – including one to me. That simple gesture of friendship brought a lump to my throat for the first time all day, and anything I could say seemed utterly inadequate.

Switching to Hadrathi, I recited the traditional mourning phrase, "May the desert welcome her home." The familiar words rolled smoothly off my tongue, even though I hadn't needed to use them in over two years.

Something about that reminder of home snapped Mylera back to herself. Clearing her throat, she completed the ritual formula: "May the stars shine on her forever."

Her shoulders relaxed in a deliberate, forced sort of way, and when she met my eyes at last, her face was cool and composed.

"Thank you, Isha. I guess we did know something like this could happen." She even faked a little shrug, as if to say, _Such is the life of a scoundrel._

Playing along, I asked, "So what happens now? What are we going to do about this?"

Mylera's lips pinched into a thin, blood-drained line. "Well, obviously, we can't let this stand," she declared, sounding exactly like an Ankhayat leviathan hunter captain sentencing a sailor to death for cowardice. "But obviously…." For a moment, she lost her train of thought, and her face almost crumpled. But then she shook her head sharply and pulled herself back together. "I think what happens now, weirdly enough, is that I talk to Bazso. Combined, we might be big enough to respond."

That was exactly the reaction I'd hoped for. "Respond, as in assassinate Djera Maha's nephews?"

Her fists clenched, the skin pulling taut over sinew and bone. "I'd like to," she snarled, in an uncanny echo of my own voice when I proposed to Ash and Faith that we wipe out Hive leadership. "I'd say we assassinate Karth Orris, but someone's already done it for us."

At that, I had a sudden, horrible thought. "Do you think Djera Maha did this because she thought _you_ killed him?"

Naturally, Mylera had already considered that angle. "Probably," she answered immediately. "Kind of fits her MO. She's all about that kind of retribution."

As was Mylera; as was I.

"Maybe we should find out who killed Karth," I suggested, thinking that they'd make a convenient scapegoat when we executed Wayan and Kuwat Maha.

Mylera, however, drew the exact opposite conclusion as to the uses of Karth's murderer. "Yes," she mused. "They're a potential ally." She drummed her fingers on her desk, and then, in a convulsive movement, snatched up her letter opener and turned it over and over. It had been a gift from Xayah, I recalled, a private joke between them that I'd never learned and probably would never know. "I mean, there aren't that many other factions it could be, right? Off the top of my head, the Hive's enemies are the Circle of Flame, the Wraiths, the Unseen, and the Crows."

No one knew anything about the elusive Unseen, whose membership was as closely guarded a secret as the Spirit Wardens' roster. The Wraiths, on the other hand, were a notorious crew of Shadows who operated primarily in Silkshore and Nightmarket, and whose burglary and blackmail activities frequently inconvenienced Hive members. The Circle of Flame was a secret society, supposedly composed of prominent nobles obsessed with the occult. Remembering Mardin's distaste for Djera Maha, I guessed randomly, "Could it have been the Crows?"

Mylera stabbed the letter opener back into its holder in one decisive thrust. "I don't think it was the Crows. It wasn't Lyssa's style," she declared. "It wasn't Bazso, right? It really didn't seem like Bazso."

Funny that he should have asked me the exact same question about _her_, right after Karth's death. "I'm pretty sure it wasn't. I could ask him directly if you want."

"No, don't. I don't think it was Bazso." Façade crumbling, she heaved a long, shuddering sigh and slumped down in her chair. Tentatively, she confessed, "Part of me thinks I should wait before doing anything, because I'm probably not thinking rationally right now. And part of me just wants to act."

Was she actually going to lean on me as a confidante now that her best friend was gone? I wasn't sure whether to feel triumphant, flattered, or absolutely terrified. "I feel the same way," I soothed.

Suddenly realizing that she was entrusting her pain and vulnerability to an _Anixis_, of all people, Mylera jerked upright and leaped back into business mode. "How much would you lot charge for a strike against the Hive?"

Honestly, that reaction was about what I deserved. Equal parts disappointed and relieved, I warned, "Ash is the one who would need convincing. He seems extremely wary of the Hive."

"Well, that's not unwarranted. It _is_ the Hive." Perhaps recalling her last business dealings with him, which had resulted in not only the loss of coin and turf but also the addition of unwanted neighbors, Mylera briefly wrestled over whether she should hire a less overpriced crew. In the end, she reluctantly conceded, "But – you're very good at what you do. I'd pay you. Bazso probably would too."

"I'll talk to my crewmates," I promised.

Correctly interpreting that as a "Yes, we'll do it, even if I have to drag Ash on the score myself," Mylera lapsed into a reverie, staring sightlessly at that pile of black-bordered envelopes.

A little disingenuously, I hinted, "Will there be a funeral?"

Even in her distracted state, Mylera knew perfectly well that I'd already read everything on her desk, so she roused herself long enough to answer my real question. "Next week. I haven't gotten around to finishing all of them yet. We'll do something."

The conversation died again.

After quizzing myself on what Xayah would do in this situation, and debating whether I could even pull off whatever it was, I concluded that the answer was almost certainly a resounding no. So instead I rose, moved around the desk slowly so Mylera could see me coming, and gave her an awkward, one-armed hug.

She stiffened but accepted it.

Then I made her a cup of coffee, set it on her desk, and quietly let myself out of her office.

Just before the door clicked shut, I saw her reach for the cup.


	61. Investigating the Hive

While I was mourning with the two gangs, Ash was launching our investigation of the Hive. Since his self-inflicted lightning hook injuries still hadn't healed completely, he opted to multitask and headed over to the Lampblacks' coal warehouse headquarters. As Sawbones smeared ointment over the electroplasmic burns, Ash polled the room at large.

"What do you think the Hive will do next?"

Danfield, the young Charterhall University medical student, was still new enough to the underworld that he held no opinion besides, "It's the Hive, I've heard of the Hive, I don't want to get involved with the Hive, and oh my gods I'm going to die!"

Sawbones and the rest of the Lampblack old guard, however, were livid with rage. While Pickett hadn't been, shall we say, the _easiest_ person to interact with (even for laidback Sawbones), she'd been part of the gang since the very beginning. They absolutely could not accept her death at the hands of interlopers from other districts who refused to respect local rules of combat.

"Who knows what the Hive will do next?" seethed the doctor. Seizing a roll of bandages, he viciously ripped off a strip and wound it around Ash's bicep. "Djera Maha thinks she's above the law." (Well, in many respects, she _was_.) "She thinks she's above the _rules_."

"A little less tight, please," requested the patient. As Sawbones grunted and unwound the bandage, Ash asked, "The rules? Which rules?"

"The _rules_ rules," Sawbones snapped, as if they shouldn't need explanation. "If you have a problem with someone, you kill them in a fair fight. You don't order a _hit_."

A gang member who had just come off duty slung her wet overcoat across a free examination table and snarled, "The Red Sashes never do anything like this." She hacked up a gob of mucus and spat it in the sawdust around the tables, whether to indicate her opinion of the Red Sashes or the Hive (or both) was unclear. Grudgingly, she admitted, "Mylera Klev knows how things are done."

"Yeah," seconded her patrol partner, who had followed her into the warehouse. "Someone needs to teach Djera Maha how we do things around here."

Hearing their voices, Henner happily abandoned all the paperwork that accompanied his new role and popped out of his office. He waved his arms and exclaimed, "But that's what happens! You cross the Hive, Djera Maha's nephews show up, and _bam_! You're out."

In response, the other Lampblacks growled and cursed, but no one denied it.

Just to make sure we didn't waste time assassinating the wrong people, Ash double-checked, "Do we know for sure they're the ones who did it?"

With a shrug, Sawbones slapped the last bandage in place. "They're always the ones who do it, right? You've heard the stories."

"Yes," said Ash drily. "Yes, I have."

* * *

We heard plenty more, too, when we visited a sampling of pubs across Silkshore and the Docks. Seemingly every scoundrel had their own favorite story about how their crewmate's childhood friend's cousin's spouse's sibling had personally witnessed Wayan and Kuwat Maha strolling up to a target in broad starlight and shooting them in the head.

That did not precisely inspire Ash's confidence in our decision to tangle with the Hive yet again.

More usefully, we also learned that apart from the Church of Ecstasy, the Hive maintained close ties with the Dagger Isles Consulate, thanks to Djera Maha's "island roots," as well as the Ministry of Preservation, the government agency that controlled shipping throughout the Imperium. Although we'd assumed that removing Skannon Vale had ended the Hive's plans to take over enough berthing capacity to dock a leviathan hunter, his death had only slowed them. According to the dockers, just a few more judicious purchases would close that loop.

Now that was discouraging.

* * *

After our little research expedition, Ash cornered me in the orphanage to warn me that while the Lampblacks all wanted revenge, they were reluctant to take the final step and declare war because they feared the Hive – "and rightly so." He pleaded, "Isha, let's not do anything foolish, like ask Bazso and Mylera how much they'd be willing to pay – "

Here he cut off abruptly, peered around, glimpsed a couple orphans far down the hall, and yanked me into an empty classroom.

"If we even _whisper_ this to anyone," he breathed, "word will reach the Hive."

His paranoia failed to move me. "I chat with Mylera every week anyway," I pointed out. "If_ I_ met with her, it wouldn't raise any suspicions." I didn't need to remind him that I could conduct secret negotiations with Bazso even more easily.

Ash's reaction was a weary sigh. "I'm just saying that until we commit fully, we shouldn't even ask or suggest anything that could be overheard. Rumors spread like wildfire."

Personally, I thought that if we kept ducking into empty rooms to bicker over whether the Hive would uncover our desire to execute a nebulous "this," dramatically distorted reports would only circulate faster. After all, the underworld loved gossip even more than the readership of the _Dockside Telegraph_ – and spread it more effectively too. As if to drive home this point, Faith opened the classroom door, cast a bored expression at us, and sauntered inside to eavesdrop.

Ignoring her and deliberately misinterpreting Ash's words, I said, "So you're suggesting that we finish all the reconnaissance before we approach the gangs."

He threw up his hands in exasperation. "I'm saying that the Hive will know it was us! Or find out shortly thereafter! We have to be ready for the repercussions."

"Why are you so scared of it?" I goaded him, earning myself an appreciative wink from Faith.

"Because it's bigger than the Crows, the Lampblacks, and the Red Sashes combined!"

That, as far as I was concerned, was not a particularly impressive achievement. Within U'Duasha itself, House Anixis wielded far more power than the Hive – and I'd successfully evaded its clutches.

Seeming to agree with me for once, Faith flopped into one of the tiny chairs, folded her hands comfortably across her belly, and dozed off.

Since I still wasn't budging, Ash tried a different tack. "You _do_ realize that the orphans will be targets too – and the Hive isn't exactly known for mercy."

Neither, however, was it known for slaughtering children. That was the preserve of the Imperial military. I leveled a cool gaze at him.

At last he caved. "Regardless, I'm on board. I just want to make sure we do it right – and not haphazardly so a rumor gets out that gets us all killed."

Despite my victory, I was not in a gracious mood. "I never suggested doing it haphazardly," I retorted.

That was exactly the opening he needed. "Good. We should take our time planning the score then." When I opened my mouth to object, he pressed on, "In the meantime, I'd be interested in locating the Helker battle plans."

I swallowed my protests. I, too, had a vested interest in locating those damned, elusive battle plans.

In one of his seemingly artless, strategic _non sequiturs_, Ash inquired, "What do you think of the relationship between Iruvia and the Imperium?"

"What do you mean?" I asked warily, wondering if it were a prelude to recruiting me to assassinate the Immortal Emperor after we finished destroying his Church.

"Well, do you think it's a good thing or a bad thing?"

What I thought was that that was an overly simplistic framing of a labyrinthine political issue that sparked debate at all levels of Iruvian society. U'Duashan schoolchildren were intimately familiar with the essay prompt, "Did Iruvia make the right decision in joining the Imperium in 489 IE? Discuss." Sigmund and I had practiced defending all three possible viewpoints: "Yes" (because the Imperial Army was literally on Iruvian soil and war would have devastated the isle), "No" (because we could have worn down the Imperials and slowly recovered in the long term), and "It's complicated and depends on the time frame and the specific impact on Iruvia that you wish to consider. Did you mean military, political, economic, or cultural?" (Although I could persuasively defend any of the three positions, my personal view tended towards the last. Of course, I _was_ an Anixis.)

At my long hesitation, Faith's eyes opened a slit.

Trying to recall and organize my old arguments, I explained, "While in principle I like the idea of greater autonomy – or even independence – for Iruvia, we do rely on the Imperium for quite a lot of governmental institutions."

Ash's expression was unreadable. "And you don't think those governmental institutions could be handled by Iruvians?"

Regretfully, I shook my head. "Not immediately. It would take at least a couple decades to develop leviathan blood processing facilities, and to stabilize our own currency against the Imperial coin."

"That's an awfully conservative, _responsible_ fiscal response!" Ash burst out, insultingly shocked by my financial acumen. "Isha, I'm impressed!"

I scowled at him.

He blinked, confused. "Are you okay?"

"I come from one of the ruling houses of Iruvia!" I exploded. "Why would you expect me _not_ to be aware of such information?"

Ash merely exchanged a chuckle with Faith, then asked, "How strong are the, shall we say, more independence-aligned factions?"

My answer was immediate and automatic. "The majority of Iruvians _don't_ want independence. We just want to preserve the status quo." Even though that was the official stance of the Houses _vis-à-vis_ the Imperial government, it did accurately reflect popular sentiment. "There are splinter groups, such as the Hadrakin, that want to break away from the Imperium, but the average Iruvian is content with the current situation." Judicious maneuvering on the part of the Houses ensured that we enjoyed the best of both worlds. "We're technically part of the Imperium, we have great trade deals with the other parts of the Imperium – and we keep the organs of the Imperium confined in a tiny district just outside the walls of U'Duasha so we only have to deal with them when we feel like it. Such as our Spirit Warden. Singular." That poor fellow was so bored.

The non-existence of ghosts in a major city distracted our fledgling Whisper. "There really aren't any ghosts in U'Duasha?" he asked, skeptical and curious at the same time.

"There are a few, but they're all attached to Whispers. Otherwise they'd get sucked into the well, U'Du."

"It seems like technology the Imperium would love to get," Ash mused.

If he were hoping to steal, export, and sell that knowledge to the highest bidder, he was in for a huge disappointment. "The U'Du isn't human technology," I warned. "Our ancestors built a temple in a caldera, and then four stars – the Demon Princes – fell from the sky and destroyed it. Their impact created a giant well of fire that attracts and burns ghosts, and U'Duasha grew up around it."

Naturally, the conclusion Ash drew from that origin story was: "So the Demon Princes are great for commerce and stability!"

"Also for bloodshed and waste of life," I countered.

"And also for hosting excellent tea parties!" Faith squealed. "The Demon Princes are a crucial contribution to culture in U'Duasha!"

At the same time that Ash ignored her and informed me, "And I'm sure that blood was put to good use," I fell for Faith's bait and snapped, "They can hold their tea parties in Doskvol."

Her positively cherubic smile hinted that she'd already mailed the invitations and expected the Demon Princes on the next train.

Ash's attention, on the other hand, had already turned towards possible scores, and he said absently, "Fair enough. But for now, finding the Helker battle plans could be a good chance to test our orphan network."

I hadn't realized that that last coin from the Zayana boys mattered so much to him, but our interests on this point aligned. "I like the idea of finding the battle plans. I know someone who'd pay a great deal for them – because it would save them from breaking into the Lord Governor's stronghold."

Faith's eyes lit up. "Breaking into the Lord Governor's stronghold sounds like an _amazing_ plan!" she cried.

"Yes," said Ash, earning a very odd look from me before he continued, "I've placed a lot of bets on, shall we say, war-oriented manufacturing companies, and I'd really like to know what to do with them. The battle plans would be a great source of insider information."

"Oh!" I exclaimed, surprised that I'd missed the breadth of his investments. "I thought you just wanted to sell them to the highest bidder."

Converting one source into two streams of profit appealed to Ash on a deep level, and he promptly endorsed my plan. "We can do that too – "

"Wait!" wailed Faith. "Wait! How is it that _everyone_ is involved in treason and didn't invite _me_? I am deeply, deeply offended!"

"Consider yourself invited, Faith," I informed her.

"Okay!" Instantly appeased, she beamed at both of us.

"So what do _you _think about the relationship between Iruvia and the Imperium?" Ash asked her for some inexplicable reason.

With a pout and a tilt of her head, Faith feigned profound concentration. "I was really hoping…that there would be more cultural sharing! The whole Demon Prince thing sounds like an excellent idea. I feel that we should import it here."

Once again, I couldn't resist her bait. "We already have the Church here, with its demon-human hybrids," I reminded her.

"Oh, but that's completely different! There's only _one_ demonic influence here! If there's only one, you can't incite them to compete for power and influence!" With a wag of her finger, she reproached me for stifling creative expression in Doskvol: "That's not the sort of thing people write plays about. But if you have _multiple_ separate demonic influences, their struggles can generate excellent and very entertaining stories."

Ash declared, "I object to the Church's extreme hypocrisy regarding any demonic practices. Which I keep learning more about every week. In general, I think Iruvia is much better off without the Imperium, as is Tycheros, as are many of the others, favorable trade deals or not. But regardless, I'd like to know what's in the battle plans."

As did I, although I hadn't yet figured out a way for either Irimina's housemaid or lady's maid to break into Ronia Helker's safe. And somehow, I couldn't see Irimina just opening it for me, even if I asked very, very nicely…. A sudden thought struck me, and I exclaimed, "Faith! You're on _friendly_ terms with Irimina!"

As if she knew exactly where this was going and wanted to ensure that it took the longest possible time to get there, Faith gasped, "Why, Isha! Are you _jealous_? Would you like to become on excellent terms with Irimina? I'm sure we can invite you!"

"No, that's fine," I replied, supremely sarcastic. "We only need one of us to be on _good terms_ with her. And we've got you. Can you gain access to the Helker papers?"

"Oh, probably," she shrugged, wielding indifference like a bludgeon.

Stunned that he'd been sitting on his investments when he could have gotten insider trading information long ago, Ash demanded, "Wait, does Irimina have the battle plans?"

If she didn't, then I had no idea where Ronia Helker's copy could be. "I don't know, but that's something Faith can find out. That's something Faith is uniquely positioned to find out."

"Then by all means, we should explore this avenue! I was assuming we'd have to kill someone to get the plans!"

Faith's features wavered between apathetic and engaged, as she calculated which attitude would provide maximal annoyance for us and entertainment for her. Apparently she settled on the latter, because her entire face lit up. "That sounds almost not-boring!" she proclaimed.

I took that to mean she'd investigate for us.


	62. Faith's Antics

Faith being Faith, she quickly gave me reason to regret delegating battle plan retrieval to her. Although it started off well enough, with the Kinclaith housemaid reporting that Faith popped up to request a favor from Irimina (which was also how I would have approached the problem), everything degenerated from there.

Releasing a pent-up, long-suffering sigh, Faith collapsed onto the sofa and tumbled length-wise across the cushions. (The maid, who'd contrived to be cleaning the hallway outside the parlor, winced at the damage to the embroidery. Irimina, who wasn't the one who'd have to repair it, merely leaned forward curiously.) Theatrically, Faith moaned, "My fellow crewmates keep going _on and on_ about how they want some of General Helker's documents, and I really want a copy just to keep it away from both of them."

At the mention of her adoptive children's biological mother's papers, Irimina froze, and the maid crept closer to the parlor to polish a sconce very, very thoroughly.

Blithely, Faith continued, "And maybe to burn, so it doesn't end up in the wrong hands." She half-rolled onto her side to simper across the coffee table at Irimina. "There will also be some taunting of my crewmates, of course, with snippets from the documents that I happen to recall juuuuuust before I accidentally set them on fire. And then accidentally drop them into the canal. And then accidentally set the canal on fire." (Given the size of some of those canal weed flotillas, that wasn't quite as improbable as it sounded.)

Reassured that Faith wasn't planning to commit treason using her children's legacy, Irimina relaxed and poured tea for both of them. "As amusing as that would be, Faith, they're not really _my_ documents," she pointed out. "They belong to the children. I'm just the custodian." Then a suspicious frown creased her forehead, and her fingers practically strangled her poor teacup. "_Why _do your crewmates want General Helker's papers?"

Bouncing back up in a flutter of lace and bows, Faith swept up her teacup and proclaimed, "I'm pretty sure that the papers in question are battle plans for a potential invasion of Iruvia." She faked a social butterfly sort of moue, disclaiming any unladylike interest in military affairs – and fooling neither Irimina nor the maid. "Isha wants them for inscrutable reasons involving Iruvian politics – and possibly to prepare in case of a war – and Ash wants them for financial manipulation and profit. And I, personally, just want to be rid of the things!"

(Here the housemaid paused and blinked at me, silently inquiring why a Doskvolian assassin who specialized in removing impediments to her mistress' smuggling sideline would have any connection to Iruvian military preparations. Ye gods, Irimina didn't screen her staff as obsessively as Sigmund or Elstera Avrathi. I'd have to increase the maid's pay, effective immediately, lest she sell me out to the Iruvian Consulate.)

Irimina, meanwhile, was also dismayed by Faith's revelations, albeit for an entirely different reason. In a loud, strident voice, she demanded, "You think General Helker made plans to invade _Iruvia_?" She couldn't quite suppress an anxious glance in the direction of her drawing room, where she kept her Iruvian antiquities.

(Although the maid didn't think anything of her reaction, I personally found it informative: If Irimina's primary interest in my homeland were art trafficking, then the confusion of war would provide extra opportunities for her crew. So what, then, was her stake in Iruvia?)

Still playing the vapid socialite for all she was worth, Faith pouted most prettily and blinked with wounded innocence. "I do not presume to know anything on the subject," she declared. "However, the Iruvian Consulate certainly believes it, as well as other organizations that I hear have been scheming to acquire these battle plans." In an abrupt switch, she dropped the act and asked entirely seriously, "May I speak to the children?"

Caught off guard, Irimina (whose possession of maternal instincts had shocked her entire staff) bit her lip and hesitated, torn over whether she should shield the children for just a bit longer. But Polonia, at least, was already sixteen and, as General Helker's daughter, would be thrown into realpolitik as soon as she debuted. Protecting her now would only weaken her later – perhaps fatally – in the world of Imperial politics.

"Yes," Irimina decided at last, reluctantly. Half to herself, half to Faith, she explained, "The papers really are theirs, and they're old enough to start making their own decisions."

Picking up a bell, she rang for the butler, Rutherford, and ordered him to summon the children. (Under my tutorage, the maid had learned not to duck or hide, but to continue dusting with supreme confidence, which was what she did now. My mousy little archivist could take lessons from her.)

After a significantly longer wait than necessary, the two teenagers, both still dressed in deep mourning, slunk past the maid into the parlor. There they positioned themselves just inside the doorway, ready to flee as soon as their mother released them. At the sight of an outsider, Polonia drew herself up rigidly, like a soldier at parade rest.

("She's very driven, miss," explained the maid. "Hero-worships her mother. Her mother the gen'ral, I mean. She wants to join the Imperial milit'ry and serve the country, make a name for herself, whatnot. Her tutors say that her essays on milit'ry strategy are pre-co-cious.")

Thirteen-year-old Andrel, on the other hand, was the very image of a disheveled scholar, with rumpled hair and shirts that somehow looked slovenly no matter how many times they were pressed. Sneaking a peek at his sister, he suddenly realized that he was still holding a book in one hand, two fingers stuck in the middle to mark the page. Guiltily, he thrust it behind his back and attempted to straighten.

Faith just scanned both of them with a deep amusement that did nothing to endear her to the teens, who regarded her with polite, aloof expressions.

Overlooking the tension, Irimina performed the introductions. "Polonia, Andrel, this is Faith Karstas. She's the one who arranged all of this, really," she said, bestowing a fond smile on all three of them. "Faith, these are Polonia and Andrel Helker Kinclaith."

As soon as she registered that Irimina hadn't used the more proper, formal "Miss Karstas," Polonia's eyelids flickered. Processing the implications of that liberty, the girl scrutinized Faith, noting her outfit with disapproval.

Unfazed, Faith greeted her without a hint of mockery: "I'm honored to make your acquaintance." Turning to Andrel, she said, "And yours as well." A teasing tone slid into her voice as she added, "Although you really shouldn't believe what Professor Morriston says about ghosts in Chapter Two. His claim there was really more of a challenge to his research rival, who proposed the opposite hypothesis."

Andrel's eyes flew wide open. Forgetting his manners, he blurted out, "You're a Whisper!"

Still at parade rest, Polonia glared sideways at her little brother and hissed, "Andrel, don't be rude."

"Please, I'm a _witch_!" protested Faith with exaggerated seriousness. "But I suppose Whisper also works." Setting her teacup back on its saucer, she also straightened up in preparation for business. "So – I apologize for dragging you all the way downstairs."

Both children glowered at her.

Playing the understanding adult mentor, Faith appealed, "Look, I was your age once, _not that long ago_ – " Now it was her turn to glare at Irimina, who unconvincingly choked back a chuckle. "I know exactly what it's like to want to sit upstairs and read my damn books, but get forced to interact with my mother's houseguests."

Both children resonated with that, Andrel more obviously than his sister.

Since the sympathy tack was working, Faith played on Polonia's patriotism next. "I have very kindly come to you today in order to make your life a lot more difficult – on top of dragging you downstairs at a moment's notice, of course. I want to tell you about a strategy problem that exists and that is entirely within your power to solve."

At that, Andrel frowned a little, but Polonia stood to attention, eyes fixed unwaveringly on Faith's face.

"I, of course, have my own desires as to the outcome. However, you will have your own objectives. You're old enough, you're a good thinker, you're entirely capable of making a decision that is right for you." Switching into the role of an intelligence agent reporting to her superior, Faith proceeded to outline the situation with their mother's battle plans, not sparing any details about the Iruvians' attempts to recover them to prepare for war, and the business interests' desire to use them to manipulate the economy. At the end, she warned, "This probably isn't the only copy of the battle plans, but possessing it might pose some risks to you and those around you."

Fully aware of their mother's controversial legacy and the enemies they'd inherited, both children flinched. As one, they stared pleadingly at Irimina, whose stern expression promised that she'd protect them at all costs.

After allowing a moment for that touching mother-children bonding, Faith finished her little speech with, "I expect that you'll need some time to consider this, and in the meantime, I'm happy to offer guidance. I just wanted to make you aware of an evolving situation and the importance of your role therein."

Relaxing her military pose and squirming just slightly, Polonia clarified, "So everybody is worried that the Imperium plans to invade Iruvia?"

"My understanding is that the Imperium plans to invade everyone," Faith retorted. A sliver of her usual self seeping out, she asked rhetorically, "Wouldn't it be _terrible_ if there existed a small island or archipelago that _didn't_ have a possibility of being invaded? That's what empires do!" Irimina cleared her throat delicately, and Faith actually reined herself in to say more seriously, "I'm pretty sure that the Imperium plans for every eventuality. Certainly, Iruvia believes invasion is a possibility."

Eyes wide, Polonia burst out, "I'm not – but I'm not sure – look, my mom drew up a lot of battle plans that were never going to happen! I'm sure this was just one of them – a thought experiment!"

"I'm sure it was," Faith soothed her. "However, General Helker was brilliant, and if she believed that a war would go in a particular direction, even as a thought experiment, then when the war actually breaks out, the Grand Marshal will immediately want to consult these thought experiments to see how it might evolve."

Shifting uncomfortably, Polonia stuttered a little, torn over whether divesting herself of the papers was tantamount to treason. "I…I need to think about things," she said at last, sounding exactly like a terrified, vulnerable child on the verge of breaking.

Here, I would have pushed on her fear for her brother and new mother and persuaded her to hand over the documents immediately lest she lose them too. Faith, however, had different priorities. She reassured the girl, "I understand completely. And I will be here when you're ready."

Polonia clasped her hands behind her back and jerked out a little nod.

Lightening the mood in the parlor, Faith smiled at her and changed the subject. "Andrel, when you make it to Chapter Six, I have some hilarious anecdotes to share about how that research was performed."

Intrigued, the boy opened his mouth to start peppering her with questions, but Polonia quelled him with a ferocious scowl, and Irimina dismissed them both so she could have a private conversation with her lover.

Which, unfortunately, failed to include any discussion of how criminally irresponsible and negligent it was to leave matters of Imperium-wide significance in the hands of a sixteen-year-old.

What in the names of all the forgotten gods had possessed me to assign battle plan retrieval to _Faith_? And why did a psychopathic Whisper who replicated Bluecoat torture and ripped out enemies' souls for eternal torment have to develop a conscience when it came to these two specific children, from whom I desperately needed to wrest a set of documents? If she had to get all gooey and maternal, we had an entire orphanage for her to dote on.

At the end of the housemaid's report, I grated out, "Can you get into that safe?"

She answered so quickly that she must have anticipated the question and studied it already. "No, miss," she replied regretfully. "Maybe if I recruit Rutherford…?"

"No," I cut her off. "No, that won't be necessary."

The fewer the people who knew about the situation, the better. Besides, Rutherford seemed like the loyal sort. To Irimina, that was. To reinforce her maid's allegiance to _me_, I doubled her pay on the spot. Then I wandered through Charterhall for a while, pondering this entire other side to Faith and wondering just who she was.

* * *

Another piece of that puzzle revealed itself in the most unexpected way. One afternoon, while Ash was inspecting his properties in Coalridge, Faith darted out of her railcar compartment and caught my arm as I passed. Clinging to my elbow and ignoring my scowl, she beamed full-force and chattered, "Isha dear, I was going to pay a visit to one Mistress Slane."

On the verge of brushing past her, I shook her off and reclaimed my arm. "Why are you – oh, the favor."

In exchange for the memories Faith had extracted from Vhetin, Zamira had pledged one service, to be specified and performed at a later date. Evidently Faith had finally figured out what she wanted. A shame it wasn't going to have anything to do with filching the battle plans.

"Of course!" Faith chirped, widening her green eyes at me. "Would you like to come?"

As uncomfortable as I felt around the Tycherosi and their medley of demon tells, I couldn't miss this chance to see what she wanted – although I feigned reluctance for form's sake anyway. "Sure," I shrugged. "I guess _someone_ has to protect her from you."

"Ouch!" she cried, delighted by my attitude. "You're feisty today!"

In preparation for this critical interview, Faith had donned what she assured me was her "most dignified dress," which I supposed was even sort of true. At any rate, the silk shaded more towards champagne peach than hot pink, the skirt only had two tiers of relatively subdued ruffles, and the lace trim fully covered her kneecaps – a truly fantastical display of restraint where her wardrobe was concerned.

It was, of course, wasted on Ash's mother, who couldn't have cared less how her son's associates dressed, so long as they proved themselves steadfast and reliable. From behind her desk, keeping her tail out of sight, she greeted us calmly, "Miss Karstas, Miss Yara, what can I do for you?"

I, as usual, faked a polite smile, took a seat near the door, and left the talking to my crewmate.

Sinking into a chair across from Zamira, Faith smoothed her skirts over her knees and leaned forward earnestly. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. I believe you owe us a favor, and we'd like to call it due."

Ash's mother merely nodded, looking half apprehensive and half resigned, as if she knew exactly what Faith had in mind and was willing to try to provide it – but feared that it would be extremely difficult and maybe even impossible.

"Now," proclaimed Faith in her best headmistress voice, "this is going to be somewhat complicated and involved, and I'd like you to bear with me until the end."

"All right…."

"I have a terrible, evil, unethical plan to get revenge on Ash."

Zamira literally recoiled, her tail flicking up.

With fake sympathy, Faith assured her, "And by getting revenge on Ash, I mean playing a prank on him!" Ignoring the way Zamira's tail swished back and forth, she continued, "You will tell Ash the following: As a representative of Tycherosian interests in Doskvol, you have been tasked with stoking – oh, what am I saying? – _creating_ more pro-Tycherosian sentiment among the local population. Just think of your demon tells, and how different and confusing and chaotic they are! They are unsightly to the good citizens of Doskvol, and are influencing them against you."

At that, Zamira flattened her tail with an effort, although her expression never changed.

"As a result, you have decided to standardize your demon tells so Doskvolians feel more comfortable around you. What you have settled on is having all Tycherosi hide their true flaws and wear fake cat ears instead. For the foreseeable future."

If it hadn't been for the tail, I'd have thought Zamira's demon tell was marble-encrusted skin.

Like an empress bestowing a great boon, Faith conceded, "Of course, I have no expectations that you and your followers will do this – except when Ash is around."

Zamira Slane, adept of That Which Hungers, head of a crew of Tycherosi who specialized in all manner of magical healing and body modifications, gaped at Faith, incredulous that _this _was the favor she called in. "And this is what you want," Ash's mother stated, her flat tone somehow turning it into a question anyway. "Not any of our normal services."

"No, I believe my request is quite specific." Faith sounded as guileless as could be. "I assume this is somewhat outside the realm of your normal services, but I hope in this case, you can make an exception because of how much you like us."

She slanted a glance in my direction, gauging my appreciation of her performance. When Zamira's eyes followed hers, I shook my head vigorously, disclaiming any responsibility for this crazy scheme.

Pursing her lips, Zamira ran some mental calculations, trying to figure out just how much influence she actually had over the other Tycherosi. She wouldn't have been a Slane, of course, if she accepted a deal as proposed. "Miss Karstas," she warned, "I'm not sure I'm entirely comfortable with the idea of this being…indefinite."

Unperturbed, Faith laid one finger on her lips and feigned deep thought. "Hmmm, how long do demonic bargains traditionally last? A year and a day?" She lowered her finger and smiled cherubically. "I'll settle for one month."

Ash's poor mother ran some more mental calculations and capitulated gracefully. "Very well, you did save my daughter's life and, I suppose this can be…arranged if this is what you want and not anything else." She drew out these last words, giving Faith every possible opportunity to reconsider.

Faith assured her, "Ma'am, I've carefully considered my desires, and I've decided that this is indeed what I want for my life. But at the end of the month, do please tell Ash that I was the one who put you up to this."

Zamira's raised eyebrows informed her that _that_ had never been up for debate. "I will be _certain_ to let him know, Miss Karstas."

I couldn't resist a dry, "I don't think he'll need telling, Faith."

With an insufferably proud grin, Faith bounced out of her chair and twirled towards the door. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Mistress Slane! Until next time!"

As I leaped to my feet too, Zamira called, "Miss Yara, may I have a word with you? In private?"

I hesitated only a heartbeat longer than was polite. "All right."

"Isha! Are you going to be okay?" Faith stage-whispered as she sidled past, casting many conspicuous glances at Zamira. "I hear there are _demons_ about."

In reply, I opened the door and stabbed an imperious finger into the hallway, to which she responded by patting me encouragingly on the head and flouncing out. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, I slunk over to her chair and perched on the very edge.

Like her son, Zamira had perfected the art of overlooking such slights, and she began calmly, "Normally, I would take this up with my son, but you are here, and he is not."

"Yes," I agreed, wondering if it would be unspeakably rude to suggest that we wait until Ash _was _here to have this conversation. Surely if Zamira could stomach Faith's antics, she could also tolerate my, er, lack of tolerance?

"Are you keeping an eye on her…condition?"

The question jolted me back into the present. Faith had a condition? "Faith's, you mean?" I clarified, fishing for more information.

Zamira, unfortunately, believed that I already knew what she was talking about and spoke in maddening euphemisms. "At the time that I offered the favor, I assumed that she would choose to deal with her…problem. But apparently not? I just want to make sure that someone is keeping an eye on it."

Come to think of it, I did recall my archivist mentioning a cryptic conversation in which Faith demanded that Madame Keitel purge her mind of all memories of all spas. What had Madame Keitel said then? Something about how she'd removed more memories from Faith than anyone alive, which might cause problems?

Trying to extract more details from Zamira, I inquired, "Is it something you can fix?"

"Maybe?" was her frank answer. "I've never seen anything quite like it."

"I know it's being monitored," I said, keeping it ambiguous as to who was doing the monitoring, "but is there anything in particular that Ash and I should look out for?"

Zamira spread her hands in a helpless gesture. "I suppose…I don't know her well, but…I suppose a telltale sign would be a general…loss of humanity?"

"I see." Cycling through Faith's actions in my head, I concluded that a dismaying proportion of them fit that descriptor.

"But as long as you and Ash are keeping an eye on it…."

Would she never just come right out and name the problem?

Easy, Isha. Remember your lessons. Handle your agents gently.

Suppressing my irritation (and the nagging sense that Sigmund would already have wheedled the information out of her), I hinted, "Do you know what might be exacerbating it?"

She still refused to address it directly. "Like I said, it's not like anything I've seen before. I mean, she _is_ a Whisper, isn't she? Any number of arcane factors could be at play. Whispers tend to be overly reckless and not particularly protective of their own humanity."

I could have screamed in frustration, but instead, I adopted the sober manner of a concerned friend. "What should Ash and I do?"

"I don't know. I suppose if you value your association with her, you should convince her to get someone to look at it."

"I'll talk to Ash," I promised, actually meaning it. After all, he'd been taking lessons on attunement, so if nothing else, he could scan Faith for any obvious spiritual issues. Failing that, he could sway Madame Keitel into telling him everything, and then mesmerize her into forgetting that she had.

"All right." Relaxing at last, Zamira breathed a sigh of relief that she'd discharged any kind of medical responsibility for Faith's mysterious "condition." She leaned back in her chair and gave me a wry smile. "Now I suppose I need to acquire cat ears."

Ones sewn from faux fur, I hoped – otherwise the local rat population was going to explode. Not that I was going to ask.

"My condolences," I said as I exited.

"It's only a month," she reassured herself more than me.

"My condolences," I repeated.


	63. Meeting Odrienne Keel

After those mostly-failures at intelligence gathering, I consoled myself by targeting a much more manipulatable mark. In a pre-arranged dead drop, Sigmund had left a letter of introduction to Odrienne Keel, along with a note saying that he'd already mentioned my (fake) name to her. He'd also taken it upon himself to provide a summary of her habits, including the address of her favorite Silkshore café, where she could be found most days, writing teetering-on-the-edge-but-just-barely-not-seditious pamphlets and supporting the coffee bean import business.

I wasn't sure whether to feel offended that Sigmund didn't trust me to do my own spying – or touched that he cared.

As I glided along one of the canals in northern Silkshore on my way to the café, I glimpsed Ash bounding off a gondola and striding into a restaurant. Judging from the tasteful décor and the relatively modest wait staff uniforms, it catered to businesspeople who were actually there mostly for business. Although I stopped my gondolier and slipped in after Ash, he made a beeline for one of the private back rooms and shut the door before I could see whom he was meeting. For a moment I wavered, wondering whether I should stake out the place, but presumably it was about that fragment of the Gates of Death, and the procurer's identity was neither useful nor interesting. Shrugging to myself, I returned to my boat.

* * *

As Sigmund's notes informed me, Sweetwater Coffee Shop, Odrienne Keel's preferred workplace, constituted a clubhouse for the Doskvolian intelligentsia. This was a state of affairs encouraged by both the proprietor (who appreciated being able to sell mildly-addictive beverages at exorbitant prices) and the local Bluecoats (who appreciated being able to monitor potential traitors while lounging at a table with a complimentary pastry in one hand and an equally complimentary cup of coffee in the other).

Before my gondola even docked, I'd already scanned the patrons and identified a pair of undercover agents. The senior partner sprawled in a booth inside the café, nodding off over the _Doskvol Times _while casting the occasional lazy glance over a crowd of student-philosophers. The junior Bluecoat, on the other hand, was huddled at one of the small, round tables on the patio, nursing a single cup of coffee and scrutinizing passersby. Seemingly unconcerned by – or perhaps simply accustomed to – the surveillance, Odrienne Keel herself occupied a table overlooking the canal. A barricade of loose papers, half-read magazines, stacks of books, and annotated pamphlets, not to mention a miniature forest of empty coffee cups, shielded her writing from unfriendly eyes and kept unfriendly ears at a distance.

After ordering a cup of coffee and a slice of cake, I tiptoed up to the writer and proffered Sigmund's letter with a nervous bow. "Um, excuse me, Lady Keel? I'm Syra Hakar."

If anyone investigated my cover identity, they would find that the Hakars were an U'Duashan spice merchant clan, fairly prosperous and hence reasonably important, but not noble and hence not prominent enough to threaten, well, anyone.

At the interruption, Odrienne jerked up from her book, startled and disoriented. "Ah, Miss Hakar." She groped around for a bookmark and snapped shut the book, a recently published volume of Severosian folk tales. "You wished to meet with me."

As if overwhelmed by her presence, I murmured, "Thank you for your time."

"Of course! Of course!" She swept aside some papers to make room for my plate and cup. "What can I do for you?"

On the gondola ride over, I'd already calculated how a spice merchant's daughter would approach the foremost thinker of our time, a Akorosian noblewoman who had devoted her life to countering Imperial excesses. Fumbling out an empty chair, I faked a little trip and half-fell into my seat. Then, with more than a hint of trepidation, I explained that I, too, was interested in the devolution of power to the isles. In a timid voice that gradually increased in volume and authority as "Syra" grew more confident, I asked for a clarification on her most famous pamphlet, _A Treatise on the Rights of Man_, and offered my own thoughts from an Iruvian perspective.

Accustomed to tongue-tied admirers, Odrienne forgave my initial stammering and leaped into political philosophy with a passion that sparked an answering excitement in me. As much as I enjoyed the company of my scoundrel friends, none of them – not even Mylera – reveled in intellectual discourse. How could I have forgotten how much I missed my family dinners, where my parents would pose declassified, age-appropriate versions of current events for Sigmund and me to analyze? My brother's plaintive question – _Was it really so bad at home?_ – drifted across my mind, and for the first time, I had no real answer. Yes? No? Yes intertwined inextricably with no?

The memory recalled me as to my true purpose here, and I subtly worked the topic around to Iruvia's semi-autonomy. "Ah, yes, that should be the model, right?" Odrienne exclaimed. Jittery from all the caffeine, she gesticulated and babbled, "Iruvia maintains its cultural identity and a local government that understands the needs of the people – " a grand wave that nearly sent a stack of notebooks swooshing into the canal – "but at the same time, it's part of the larger Imperial infrastructure. It's really the best solution for everyone!" Speaking faster and faster in her excitement, she thumped the book she'd been reading and practically tripped over her words: "Severos has that too! They just pretend they don't. I don't understand why every isle doesn't use that model!"

Leaning forward, I planted my elbows on the table. "I absolutely agree! I don't understand, though – I've noticed so much the unrest in the city lately, and it seems like popular sentiment _opposes_ that model."

"That's nonsense!" she snapped, loudly enough that the Bluecoat on the patio swiveled around to fix us with a suspicious scowl. Deflating, she lamented, "I thought everybody would have learned from Skovlan."

Here was my chance. Opening my eyes in a show of only-partly-feigned distress, I whispered, "I've heard talk – I hope it's wrong – but…there seem to be people pushing for war with Iruvia?"

Her answer confirmed it (not that I'd doubted Sigmund's intelligence, of course): "It's the last thing anyone needs, really."

"I _agree_. We just finished a thirty-some-year war with Skovlan. We can direct our resources towards much better uses, such as – " visions rose before my eyes of potholed streets, crumbling flophouses, ragged urchins running wild instead of attending school, young men and women who joined gangs for lack of any other career options – "such as social programs for the poor," I finished.

"_Exactly_!" Odrienne's head bobbed up and down. "I don't know what they're thinking!"

Brows knit in deep thought, I inquired in a hushed, disapproving tone, "Do you know who these people might be?"

A heavy, defeated sigh whooshed out of her. "I've heard rumors. This – " she glanced over at the Bluecoat and swallowed an uncomplimentary term – "this _push_ for war centers on the nobility, because they're not the ones who have to fight."

The corners of my lips twisted down. "That figures."

Lowering her voice still further, she confided, "I also get the impression it's coming from the Church."

"The Church!" I cried before I could stop myself.

Flapping a hand to shush me, she continued, "I'm not particularly observant myself, but some of my friends say that it's come up several times in sermons lately."

"What does the Church have against _Iruvia_?" Tapping my fingers against my coffee cup, I tried and failed to come up with a list of grudges. After all, we didn't ban or discriminate against it in any way. To be honest, we didn't _care_ enough to bother banning or discriminating against it. Mere apathy couldn't possibly justify a crusade, right?

However, Odrienne evidently believed that the clergy took belief, or the lack thereof, much more seriously than I did. "One assumes that the Church hopes that Iruvia will become more observant."

"But it's not like we've suppressed it at all. They're completely free to practice!"

"Yeeees," she drew out the word. "But certain members of the Church – zealots, really – feel that freedom to practice doesn't go far enough…. But it's _nonsense_, right? You don't even have a ghost problem in U'Duasha!"

No, no, we really didn't. "We have one Spirit Warden, and he's the most bored person you can imagine."

The image of a depressed Spirit Warden, pining away for lack of meaningful work, surprised a little chuckle out of her before her face turned sober again. "But I suppose they feel that that's not enough. I guess? I don't know. I never understand anything the Church does." Sipping her now-cold coffee and scowling absently at the bitterness, she stared into the canal and mulled over the issue. "Perhaps I should make that the subject of my next pamphlet."

"I think that's a brilliant idea!" It really was – and the best part was that I hadn't even had to suggest it (directly). "Your pamphlets are all so influential."

Humbly, she replied, "Among certain circles, yes."

I dismissed her modesty with an impatient shake of my head. "It will help calm this…whatever-this-is, before we get into another massive civil war that won't benefit anyone except maybe a few generals who desperately want medals."

Odrienne barely heard me. More to herself than to me, she mused, "Yes, yes, I think that is what I should discuss next."

Rummaging through her papers until she excavated a pen and a mostly blank sheet of paper, she started scribbling out an outline. Forgotten, I sat back, savored my coffee (it really was quite good), and nudged her occasionally to steer her along the correct lines. At dusk, as the black canal waters reflected the sullen glow of the sky and the moon edged over the rooftops, Odrienne finally threw down her pen, flexed her fingers, and stretched out her back. "All right!" she proclaimed, satisfied with the afternoon's work. "I think I'm ready to start writing!"

"Nice!" I chirped. "I'll stop bothering you so you can work then!"

Although she made the obligatory polite noises about how my presence was no bother at all, how she found my conversation most stimulating, and so on, her fingers crept back towards her pen.

Before I left her to her draft, though, I had one final question: "Do you know what happened to Ian Templeton?"

"Ian?" She looked startled, as if she hadn't thought at all about the playwright. Obviously they weren't best friends – but I didn't need them to be. I only needed them to be sufficiently acquainted for her to provide me with a letter of introduction. "Oh, I think Ian just got out of the Hook. I haven't spoken to him."

In a hushed, funerary tone, I asked, "How is he doing? I mean – _Ironhook_." I imbued the word with layers of insinuations about all the tortures and privations a delicate artist must have endured, locked up with the roughest, crudest, least educated members of society.

"I don't know," she replied. "We've never been that close. We just move in some of the same circles. I think he's enjoying being at home again."

From her curtness, I feared that she was picturing herself locked up in Ironhook on charges of sedition, and I hastened to shift the topic. "That's entirely understandable. I just love his plays. They're all so beautiful!"

Thank all the forgotten gods that Odrienne was easily distracted. She promptly plunged into a reverie as she recalled the performances she'd attended. "Aren't they just?" she asked wistfully. "Oh, _A Requiem for Aldric_! I wish we'd seen the second act!"

As did I – even though it was my and my crewmates' fault that we hadn't.

I hinted, "I'd love to call on him sometime, when he feels up to receiving visitors, of course. Who knows – maybe we'll get a new play out of it!"

Cracking a rueful grin at her outline, the product of an afternoon with me, Odrienne promised, "I know people who know him, and I'll pass along word that you're interested in meeting him…. You know, I think a new project would be good for him. Although possibly he's been writing while in prison…I don't know. Like I said, I haven't really spoken to him."

"Thank you so much! I'll see if I can convince him to have _A Requiem for Aldric_ printed."

"Oh, that'd be lovely! But now – " she picked up her pen and flourished it comically – "duty calls!"

I grinned at her, feeling a surge of genuine fondness. "Would you like me to grab you another slice of cake?"

"Yes, please!"

On my way out, I ordered her a slice of coffee-flavored cake slathered with coffee-flavored frosting and topped with chocolate-covered coffee beans. A little extra caffeine never hurt anyone, right?


	64. Funerals

In fact, Mylera was the one who needed a little extra caffeine, because she procrastinated so long on funeral invitations that the Lampblacks – normally not the more, shall we say, _organized_, of the two gangs – wound up holding their ceremony first. Without an arcane spirit well to suck in and destroy the souls of the dead, Pickett's and Xayah's bodies had long since been collected by the Spirit Wardens and dissolved in electroplasm at Bellweather Crematorium. Doskvolian funerals never involved the body and constituted what we'd call memorials in U'Duasha, although I opted not to quibble over terminology.

One bitterly cold evening, much like the one on which I first met Pickett, Ash and I donned somber black suits and trudged through the sleet to the Leaky Bucket. Light spilled from its windows as it always did, but the pub was eerily quiet and a sign on the door read, "Closed for a private event." Inside, the Lampblacks had swathed all the tables in black cloth and arranged a cluster of small white candles on each, like handfuls of stars. Although Ash and I arrived early, the whole gang was already assembled, filling the pub with a sea of black overcoats. Grim and tight-lipped, they sat facing Pickett's booth, where a single silver taper illuminated a framed photograph.

Next door in his own booth, Bazso conversed in low tones with Mylera and Ardashir, who both wore the stark white cotton mourning robes of Iruvia. A quick, faint smile indicated that Bazso had registered Ash's and my arrival, but that was all. As soon as we slipped into the last empty seats at the back, Mardin switched off the electroplasmic lamps and plunged the room into a gloom broken only by wavering pinpoints of candlelight.

Dignified and imposing in a well-tailored suit that I'd never seen before, Bazso rose to his feet, commanding our attention. A small white candle cupped in his palms, he positioned himself in front of Pickett's booth and began, "Thank you all for coming."

Deliberately, he looked around the room, his gaze passing over and giving the impression of acknowledging each of us in turn. In the darkness, the yellow glow of his candle highlighted the planes of his face, the solemnity of the ceremony lent him a regal air, and for the first time, I realized that he wouldn't look out of place on a dais in a great hall, in Doskvol or Lockport or U'Duasha or anywhere else.

"We are gathered here today to remember our friend and colleague, Pickett." Although Bazso's voice remained level, his jaw tightened. "She was a good fighter, a loyal friend, and a loving daughter."

Here, he nodded respectfully to an elderly couple sitting next to Henner in the front row. Pickett's father's eyes were fixed on his daughter's picture, and I doubted that he heard a word of Bazso's eulogy. Pickett's mother, though – as her head turned sharply at Henner's murmured condolences, I glimpsed pinched lips and a pair of very familiar, icy eyes.

Drawing a deep breath, Bazso concluded, "Pickett has been – _was_ – with the gang from the very beginning. I could not have asked for nor received a better second-in-command. She will be greatly missed."

He closed his eyes, bowed his head briefly over his candle, and set it down reverently in front of the photo. Then he returned to his seat.

To my surprise, Mylera rose next, in the flowing motion of a dancer or sword master. She gracefully extended a hand towards the Lampblacks, her candle poised on her upturned palm like a votive offering. "It is my honor to be here today, to pay tribute to Pickett of the Lampblacks." The words rolled off her tongue with a poetic cadence. "Although I cannot say that I knew her well personally, I was very familiar with her tactics and strategy."

Her tone struck just the right balance between sincere sorrow and wry humor, and she actually drew some weary smirks from her erstwhile enemies.

"I speak for all of the Red Sashes when I say that we respected Pickett's skill in combat and her sheer determination and courage – even when we disagreed with the uses to which she put them."

At that, Bazso chuckled outright, drawing answering guffaws and snorts from his gang. I tried to catch his eye, to share the moment, but he wasn't looking in my direction.

The rest of the Lampblacks were staring at Mylera, absolutely charmed and hanging on her words as if they hadn't wanted to murder her just weeks ago. A flash of amusement in her eyes suggested that she appreciated the irony, and she bestowed a compassionate smile on Pickett's parents before addressing her closing remarks to the room at large: "Pickett did not know the meaning of the word 'surrender.' She was a worthy adversary and, more recently, a worthy ally. She will be missed."

In a controlled swirl of her white robes, she set her candle next to Bazso's. Then she, too, sat down.

Nervous and awkward, Henner lumbered to the front of the room next and paid tribute to the woman who had recruited and mentored him in the gang. He was followed by Ardashir, who praised Pickett's fierceness and aggressiveness and general bloody-minded relentlessness. That last point garnered a number of smug _hear, hears_ from the Lampblacks, and I felt a surge of pride in them and the Red Sashes and this entire alliance that I'd achieved at such cost to myself.

Again I looked to Bazso, hopeful that he recognized it too, but he was focused on Ardashir as the Red Sash second-in-command concluded, "She will be missed."

After that came a flood of tributes from Lampblacks who had grown up with Pickett, trained with Pickett, fought beside Pickett, learned from Pickett. They recounted tales (almost certainly exaggerated) that celebrated her prowess as a fighter, her ruthlessness as a gang leader, her steadfastness as a friend. With sheepish glances at her parents, some even confessed to youthful escapades on the streets of Crow's Foot, games of "Dare" gone awry that ended in mad scrambles under clotheslines and through picket fences to flee irate Crows or Bluecoats (or both). Pickett, as a teenager, had had quite the talent for needling the local constabulary – which somehow did not surprise me. All of the speakers finished with the ritual phrase, "She will be missed," either uttered with grim determination, or choked out past tears, or hissed through gritted teeth.

As the speeches proceeded, the candles piled up in front of Pickett's photo and shone like motes of the Unbroken Sun, while the rest of the room sank deeper and deeper into blackness. At last, the line of mourners petered out, and there was a long enough lull that people began to eye one another and Bazso, wondering if everyone who wished to speak had gone. As Bazso tensed to rise and close the memorial, I found myself pushing back my chair, picking up a candle, and advancing towards the front. As if in a dream, I caught glimpses of the Lampblacks' upturned faces – some stern, some puzzled, some almost offended by my temerity.

After the darkness at the back of the room, the blaze of fire on Pickett's table – no, altar now – practically blinded me. From the photograph, a teenaged Pickett, her long, glossy hair in a sleek braid, wearing a white shirt with an unexpectedly ruffled collar, smirked across the flames at me. _Never guessed I had another side to me, did you, girl? _she seemed to gloat.

And she was right: I'd been so busy hating her that I'd never tried to learn who she was.

When I tore my gaze from hers, Bazso caught my eye and raised one doubtful eyebrow – _Are you sure about this?_ – while Mylera regarded me impassively, her face betraying no hint of support. I turned away, scanned the crowd, automatically noted Pickett's mother, dry-eyed and gaunt; her father, rigid as a corpse; and the rest of the Lampblacks, grief-stricken, stunned, faintly curious about what I had to say.

As was I.

To be honest, I _didn't_ know what I would say – what I _could_ say – to honor a woman for whom I'd harbored such an infamous enmity. All I knew was that I would regret not saying anything at all.

Cradling the little candle in my palms and hoping the melted wax wouldn't drip, I opened my mouth and let my thoughts tumble out as they would. "I think everyone here knows that Pickett and I didn't get along."

At that understatement of the Imperial Era, half of the Lampblacks smiled bleakly; the other half tensed, ready for an insult and a brawl.

"As soon as I arrived in this city, we got off on the wrong foot, to put it mildly, and somehow we never recovered from that." (Literally. I still bore scars from that beating.) "But I'd like to think that we respected each other, and certainly I valued her honesty. Pickett was someone I trusted never to stab me in the back – because she made it abundantly clear that she'd rather stab me in the chest."

That actually raised a chuckle from the gang, although Pickett's poor father looked appalled.

Encouraged, I continued, "I think…I think everyone here knows what I am and hence will understand when I say that, in my line of work, honesty is both rare and precious."

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Bazso's lips quirk upwards in an affectionate, _That's my girl_.

"So no," I confided to the Lampblacks, "I did not like Pickett. But more importantly, I _trusted_ her." Instead of the ritual passive-voice phrase, I declared, "I will miss her."

Dead silence filled the room as the gang processed my break with tradition, the implications thereof. The candles on the altar made little scraping noises, the only sound in the pub, as I nudged them aside to eke out space for mine.

At last, I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and faced the crowd. In a low voice, I vowed, "She will be avenged."

Pickett's mother skewered me with a hard stare, so much like her daughter's, then inclined her head in regal acceptance.

* * *

Two days later, the Red Sashes held Xayah's ceremony in the foyer of the sword academy. Although a true Iruvian funeral was impossible, they approximated a coffin using a waist-height table and draped it in scarlet silk shot through with gold threads. Heaped high along its length were roses in all the shades of blood, ranging from the crimson of arterial spray to the brownish-purple of an old scab. Over the blossoms presided an antique brass brazier filled with glittering black sand, from which rose a single stick of incense, as thick as my forefinger and purchased at unspeakable cost in the Silver Market. Fragrant whorls of smoke wafted over our heads, its spicy aroma blending with the thick scent of the roses and creating a surreal atmosphere.

Not for an Ankhayat the informality and spontaneity of the Lampblack memorial: Printed programs, handed to each white-clad guest at the door, specified the order of ceremony, listing speaker names and the recital of Vaasu poetry. It was a minor miracle that the Red Sashes didn't assign seating too (although maybe they just ran out of time).

After a formal convocation and the litany of Vaasu demon-stars, Mylera and her lieutenants each rose in turn to deliver precisely timed speeches – dry, factual, stripped of any emotion – that described a stylized woman who bore little resemblance to Xayah herself. (Iruvian ceremonies were less about celebrating the individual, and more about reinforcing the social order.) In a mirror of Pickett's memorial, Bazso and Henner spoke too, but as neither had known Xayah personally, their eulogies were as formulaic as the Sashes'.

Once again, I kept to the back of the room, feeling awkward and out of place among all the mourners. At one point during a particularly tedious speech, I glanced around and thought I glimpsed my brother, but when I blinked, it was only one of the Sashes.

After the final dirge – half-sung and half-chanted in ancient Hadrathi that probably only Mylera understood – the guests formed into a long, winding reception line to pay their respects to the Red Sash and Lampblack leaders. Bazso's eyes roamed over the mourners until they found mine, and he shot me tiny, rueful smile. _This may take a while._

I just barely tilted my head to a side, acknowledging the apology._ I know. _Flitting out a side door, I drifted aimlessly towards the canal.

Not entirely to my surprise, a hooded figure in a dark cloak, which fluttered open just long enough to hint at white robes underneath, materialized out of the fog and fell in step beside me."So that was Mylera Klev," came my brother's voice, thoughtful and assessing, as if he'd taken the measure of her and filed her away for future use.

"I didn't know you knew her."

His shoulders rose and fell in a casual shrug. "I don't. But I was curious to see the scapegoat of the _Hunter's Spear_ Incident."

Of _course_ the heir of House Anixis would know Mylera's true story, the one I'd never succeeded in extracting from anyone in Doskvol because she'd maybe confided it to one person at most – and that one person had just taken it to the grave.

Or, rather, the electroplasmic vat in Bellweather Crematorium.

Too proud to confess that he knew my friend better than I did, I arched my eyebrows and inquired, "And?"

Either Sigmund assumed that I knew already and merely wanted his opinion of Mylera, or he had no intention of divulging more intelligence than I was willing to beg for, because his only response was, "She seems to be doing well for herself here."

Without even thinking about where we were going, I'd been leading him north, away from the sword academy. Now I cut east across the bridge to Charterhall, where no one would recognize me. After wrestling down my pride, I bowed to his superior resources and spy networks. "So what really happened?"

My question provoked absolutely no reaction, meaning that he'd already guessed I didn't know. Ambling along the deserted canal-side path, he recited in a dispassionate tone, "Lieutenant Mylera Ankhayat was commanding the harpooners on board the _Dawn Eagle_ when it found itself in the same hunting grounds as the Ankhuset ship, the _Hunter's Spear._ You know leviathan hunter captains: irascible, obstinate, incapable of negotiation or compromise." Based on my interaction with Captain Clave, I could believe it. "While they were arguing over who had priority, the largest leviathan ever reported in the Void Sea attacked. The ships were hopelessly outmatched. According to the official account, Lieutenant Ankhayat panicked and fired a shot that crippled the _Hunter's Spear_. Its rudder, to be precise. Seeing that there was no way to save it, the captain of the _Dawn Eagle_ determined that his duty to Iruvia required him to preserve his own ship, and so the Ankhayats left the Ankhusets to their fate."

"Mylera would _never_ panic – " I began hotly.

"I didn't say she would," Sigmund overrode me, sounding disapproving. "I did specify that this is the official account, did I not? In the aftermath, while brokering peace between the two Houses, House Anixis established that the order to fire came from the captain of the _Dawn Eagle._ However, House Ankhuset demanded justice and threatened war. As House Ankhayat valued an experienced ship's captain over a junior member of the House, they pinned the blame on her. They were, in a way, generous – the claim that she panicked exonerated her of criminal intent, and House Ankhuset grudgingly agreed to let her live. Naturally, she had no prospects in U'Duasha after that, and so she left."

"I see." My lips twisted in disgust. _Politics_, Mylera had said, bitter and defensive, when I asked why she left Iruvia. Politics and wolves and being done with "all of that."

Only in U'Duasha would we call destroying a young officer's reputation and career _generosity._

Lost in thought, I was caught off guard when Sigmund seized my arm and spun me around to face him. "_Signy_." There was an urgent note in his voice. "I was at the Lampblack memorial. I heard what you said. Promise me you won't lose objectivity." At the accusation, so antithetical to all of our training, I flinched. "Promise me you'll be careful."

Indignant, I tried to wrench free, but he clamped down harder. "I'm _always_ careful," I snapped.

At such a blatant lie, a humorless chuckle burst from his throat. "No, you aren't," he stated, encompassing in three words everything I'd done since the night I snuck out of the banquet hall, stole Grandfather, and ran away from home. "I can't lose you," he breathed, half a plea, half a command.

That was a funny sentiment given that he was the one who'd left me first, abandoning all of our dreams and withdrawing further and further into his bond with Ixis, where I could not – or would not – follow.

I scoffed at him. "So says the assassin sent here to kill me."

He recoiled like a kicked dog, face full of hurt. "That's not fair, and you know it."

As I leveled a very Pickett-like scowl at him, he clutched his cloak to keep it from flapping open, and suddenly I realized that he was shivering in those ridiculously thin cotton robes but couldn't dress more warmly because he had to fit in among the Sashes.

And why? Because he'd wanted to spy out my associates to determine what manner of people they were.

Because that was the Anixis way of showing love.

That realization and the sight of his misery melted my anger, and I stood on tiptoe to wrap my arms around his shoulders. "I know, I know," I crooned, rubbing his back as I had so many times in the past, before he was named heir, before he learned that the Imperium wanted to destroy our home, before he was set the impossible task of killing me to prove his loyalty. "We'll be all right," I soothed. "We'll figure this out together. I promise."


	65. Ronia Helker's Battle Plans

The heart of that promise, of course, involved creating copious amounts of internal turmoil to distract the Imperium from invading Iruvia. Since Odrienne Keel had that well in hand (or, rather, in pen), I turned my attention to beating my brother to the battle plans. And when I picked up our mail at the Orchid Salon and discovered a letter from Polonia that requested Miss Karstas's presence at the Kinclaith mansion, I actually thought I had a chance. After meticulously resealing the envelope, I slid it under Faith's compartment door, retreated to the common room, and waited.

I didn't have to wait long.

A patter of slipper-clad feet heralded Faith's arrival. Her blonde, beribboned head poked through the doorway. One hand flapped the envelope in my direction.

"Bye, Isha!" she sing-songed. "I'm going to meet with Polonia and Irimina about the battle plans!"

Her head popped back out of the doorway.

"Wait!"

Leaping to my feet, I bounded after her. I needed to be at that meeting to ensure that Polonia made the _right_ decision concerning her mother's legacy – _i.e._ entrusted the battle plans to someone who would entrust them to people who would then stymy them.

At the far end of the hallway, Faith froze with one hand on the door handle, her posture betraying annoyance that I wanted to pressure the Helker kids. Then she twirled to face me, skirts flying, pink-lipsticked mouth in an O of pure elation.

"Why, Isha, I thought you said you _didn't_ want to get involved! Did you change your mind? Irimina and I would be _delighted_ to have you! Come on, come on!" As she deliberately scanned me up and down, her ecstasy collapsed. "You'll probably want to wear something else though." She pouted at my trousers, hinting that proper attire constituted the better part of seduction. (My tutors would actually have agreed with her. Come to think of it, some of them might have appreciated her.) Then her face lit up again. "I have a good dress! Let's see if it fits you!"

I was having second thoughts already anyway. Polonia had specifically addressed her invitation to her adoptive mother's trusted friend. If I showed up unannounced, would the teenager resent that? Would she interpret it as totally unwarranted adult pressure to follow a certain course of action – and perversely swerve the other way?

"Actually, that's all right," I told Faith, who emitted some perfunctory noises of disappointment. "Maybe another time."

I'd get a full report later from my housemaid anyway.

* * *

In a gesture of affection, Irimina vacated the parlor so Polonia could receive her guest in full grown-up-lady style. When Rutherford showed Faith into the room, the sixteen-year-old was perched on the edge of Irimina's divan, her back ramrod straight.

She jumped to her feet and attempted a gracious, hostess-ly nod. "Miss Karstas. Thank you for coming."

Andrel, on the other hand, was slouched in an armchair in the corner, buried in a book. At the sound of voices, he looked up, blinked in confusion, and went back to reading.

With no trace of mockery, Faith returned Polonia's greeting and sat.

Skipping, or perhaps simply forgetting, the requisite pleasantries, Polonia announced as if she had rehearsed the line, "Andrel and I have debated this a great deal over the last few days. We feel…I, um…." She trailed off and cast a glance over at her brother, whose token presence offered no help or moral support whatsoever. In a tentative voice, she asked, "Aunt Irimina says you can arrange things such that people are aware that…we no longer have the plans?"

In answer, Faith gave her a firm nod. "Yes, of course."

The girl wavered for just one moment longer. "In that case…."

She picked up a bundle of papers from the end table, walked around the coffee table, and proffered them to Faith, who accepted them respectfully.

"Please make sure these don't fall into the wrong hands. Although…." Reluctant to criticize her mother's work, Polonia frowned and admitted in a dragging sort of way, "Although it might not really matter…." After another pause, she burst out, "I don't think these were ever meant to be used. They're not really a _plan_, if you know what I mean, but if everyone _thinks_ that's what they are, it might be better if they're not here."

With shockingly genuine sincerity, Faith assured her, "I understand."

The girl's shoulders sagged in relief. "Thank you, Miss Karstas, for taking care of this problem for us."

"Thank _you_, as well."

Much more relaxed now that she'd divested herself of this threat to her family, Polonia almost-but-not-quite plopped down onto the divan. Taking the hint, Faith gracefully showed herself out, leaving behind a box of chocolates for Irimina (who would almost certainly share them with the children).

I got all of those details from my housemaid later, of course. If I ever took over the Anixis spy ring here, my first action would be to appoint her my lieutenant.

* * *

After that successful interview with Polonia, Faith reappeared in the railcar with a sheath of papers tucked under her arm. As if drained beyond belief, she drooped where she stood and moaned at Ash and me, "Through great expenditure of my own labors, I have discovered a set of papers detailing a terrible, _terrible_ invasion of U'Duasha."

Well, of course – that was the entire point of this exercise. "She gave them to you, then," I commented, feigning indifference.

Unfortunately, no amount of acting now could erase my past eagerness.

Keeping the papers angled so I couldn't read them, Faith half-sobbed, "Oh, the crimes against humanity, the suppression of the Iruvian people, the tragic ensuing death and decay, the famine, demons, bloodshed. It is a terrible, terrible thing that I have discovered this day."

Considering Ronia Helker's military record in Skovlan, that was a given. "Yes," I agreed patiently, "but how will they accomplish this?"

She slowly swung her head from side to side, consumed by sorrow that, after that summary, anyone would still dream of asking. "The plans were quite extensive. There were hundreds of pages and sub-pages that I couldn't be bothered to read. _So_ much text. And not _nearly_ enough of it was pink."

Laying down his pen so he could take a gulp of coffee, Ash rubbed his temples (a frequent action among those exposed to Faith). "And you got these from the daughter?"

At the attention from a different audience member, Faith's attitude shifted towards excitement. "But there was an excellent, excellent chapter that I thought you would be interested in. Where General Helker proposes starting the invasion by having Imperial infiltrators in Vaasu'at shatter the cages that bind the Demon Princes!"

"What?" I exclaimed. "That doesn't make any sense."

In more ways than one. For one thing, the Demon Princes' spires were scattered all over the city, not concentrated in the western district of Vaasu'at (and since when did Faith know U'Duashan geography anyway?). For another, House Anixis wouldn't let Imperial infiltrators get anywhere near those spires.

Accuracy, however, had never been Faith's modus operandi. With a malicious twinkle in her green eyes, she inquired sweetly, "Something about causing unrest and chaos within the city – so there will be nothing left to invade? Because if there is nothing left to invade, then the invasion is already done."

After months of trial and error, I knew better than to lose my temper. Folding my arms across my chest, I cocked my head and observed in an indulgent, there-there-isn't-it-adorable-when-she-tries-to-think? tone, "That doesn't actually make any sense, Faith."

Seeing through the ploy, she grinned back broadly, showing all her teeth.

It was our resident financier who objected, "Why _wouldn't_ they want to destroy the economy? It's the easiest way to take down U'Duasha."

Perhaps, but that didn't seem relevant to Helker's vision of warfare. "Faith was talking about destroying the spires," I pointed out, "not the economy."

"They just want to _contain_ the spires, surely. It does seem a little reckless to – "

"No, no, no!" Faith broke in, fed up with our blockheadedness. "_Shatter_ them. I said _shatter _them. Because presumably it's a bad thing if the Demon Princes are no longer imprisoned, right?" She dimpled at me, radiating naïve confusion.

Drily, I replied, "I'm pretty sure most U'Duashans would agree that keeping them inside their spires is better for the general health of the city."

In fact, House Anserekh kept pointing out that the Ixis Spire was cracked and should really be fixed sooner rather than later and that, as engineering and construction experts, they'd be _happy _to repair it. So far we'd had staved off their clumsy attempts to turn the other Houses against us.

Craning my neck conspicuously, I peered at the papers Faith was holding. "So where are the battle plans? You mentioned hundreds of pages. Those do not look like hundreds of pages."

Face full of reproach, she shoved them behind her back. "They're my notes." She batted her eyelashes like an airheaded socialite. "On the way home from Irimina's estate, I accidentally tripped in the river, and the plans just sort of washed away, never to be seen again!"

"That's the least believable thing you've said so far," remarked Ash, in the tones of a Doskvolian observing that the sky was black at midday.

"So what's in _those_ notes?" I persisted.

"They have all the important parts. Like how Irimina is going to focus on supporting the demonic cults and feeding them weapons from across the border."

Even though eye-rolling wasn't exactly in Ash's repertoire of facial expressions, for a moment I thought he might add it. "Irimina is going to – yes, of _course_ she will."

Sarcasm didn't get us any further than seriousness. "Faith, where are the battle plans?"

"They were tragically misplaced."

I looked at Ash for confirmation, but he'd apparently decided that disinterest might work. With a bored shrug, he picked up his pen again and spun it through his fingers. "I don't care about the battle plans anymore. They're not useful for what I thought they were, originally."

"Selling them to the highest bidder?" I clarified.

"Sure." Bending over his notebook, he scribbled out a mathematical expression, some sort of complex model for the evolution of commodities prices in the event of civil war.

Ignored, Faith rushed to reclaim the spotlight. "O!" she declaimed. "So tragically, tragically misplaced! Although, Isha – I did promise that you would tell whoever was looking for them that we have them. So please do so."

"I'm not going to tell anyone anything until you tell me where they are," I informed her.

"I told you already! Bottom of the river."

"Then why would I tell anyone that we have them when we obviously _don't_?"

"Please!" she cried, aghast. "Have you decided to start telling the truth?"

How could one supposedly-adult individual infuriate me more than the sum total of an entire orphanage of uneducated, uncultured, semi-feral street urchins? "You do realize that anyone like Ash can just listen to me and figure out that we don't actually have them!"

"Except that at this point, I'm quite certain that you _believe _we have them. So you could in fact tell them so truthfully!"

Ash's pen had stopped scratching while he parsed Faith's words, and now he intervened. "_Isha_. What I think she's trying to tell you is that _she_ at least has them."

"Okay," I said more quietly, mollified.

Faith's expression oscillated between delight that _finally _someoneunderstood her – and annoyance that that someonehad spelled it out and spoiled her fun. In a tone of imminent reason, she explained, "I need to study the plans in more detail to figure out what the effects are before I share them with anyone." That sounded…almost responsible. Adopting her best schoolmistress attitude, she prompted, "So, Isha – what is the _worst_ thing that could be found in the plans?"

"The worst thing that could be found in the plans?" I repeated, puzzled as to what point she was trying to make.

"Yes. The most horrific thing, the thing with the most horrible consequences for you and your goals."

Ash's contribution was: "To be honest, the mere use of these plans, no matter what they say, will be terrible for Iruvia."

That was true, but after cycling through a litany of horrors, I settled on: "Destroying the U'Du?"

Without the well, we'd have to extend the lightning barrier all the way around the city, effectively conceding the Immortal Emperor's point. In addition, our leviathan hunter fleet supplied just enough leviathan blood to satisfy Iruvia's current energy needs – if we factored a new lightning barrier into the equation, we might actually need to start importing leviathan blood from Akoros.

"Oh, that's a good one," praised Faith. "What else?"

I tried to think like Ronia Helker. What might she do that would destroy all of my dreams? "Shelling the city into submission and murdering all the civilians, like she did in Lockport?"

Now Faith's brows knit in deep confusion, and her eyes darted about, seeking enlightenment in the nooks and crannies of the common room. "That…that would be _bad_, you're saying. Right?"

"Yeees. That would be bad, Faith." I stretched out my words, enunciating each one with great precision.

"Okay, good to know." She gestured for me to keep guessing.

She'd specified the very worst setback for my goals, hadn't she? So I needed to think in more personal terms. "I suppose…they could try to break out the Demon Princes? Although…that seems like it would go equally poorly for them. So why would they do that?"

"It seems almost certain that the Iruvian Princes would find some way to take advantage of the situation and escape," Ash noted.

"The _Demon_ Princes, you mean?" I objected.

"Sorry, I forget that you have princes who aren't demons too."

We didn't, actually, but I opted not to correct him.

Determined to implement the Socratic method all the way to the bitter end, Faith asked, "Why would they escape when they could just rule U'Duasha directly? With, like, swarms of demonkind?"

"I hate to say it," I admitted, "but she makes a good point."

Her answer was a smug smirk, before her face settled back into its stern schoolmistress expression.

"I will admit that I have never met these Demon Princes," said Ash, "so I don't know."

I informed him, "They're encased in black crystal."

"And wouldn't it be tragic if something happened to that black crystal?" Faith hinted with heavy patience, as if she wished she could just shove us into the correct conclusion.

Staring meaningfully at me, Ash responded, "If _I_ were a Demon Prince and wanted to escape, my first action would be to start a war that leads to combat in my city, in the hopes that my spire gets cracked."

At that, I had a horrible thought, so horrible that I automatically reached for Grandfather with my mind.

Before I could make contact though, Faith dropped her teacher act. "Oh wait! Wait! Sorry! I just remembered something else that you should know about! One of the other bits mentioned that Imperial spies in U'Duasha mentioned that the U'Du is a reversible system! There's, like, a switch! And one side of the switch is like, 'Suck souls into the well.' And the other side is like, 'Send all the souls back out of the well into the city'!"

That appalled me for about fifteen seconds as I fine-combed everything I knew about the U'Du. At the end of those fifteen seconds, I concluded that itwas the most ridiculous suggestion I'd ever heard – and that Faith knew all the most effective ways of baiting me.

In confirmation, she raised both her arms (after shifting the papers into her hand) in a dramatic benediction: "An explosion of all-enveloping, all-encompassing electroplasm!"

While I was staring at the papers and calculating whether I could dart forward and snatch them, a tendril of smoky shadow brushed my mind. _Yes, child?_

Interrogating my House demon took precedence over scuffling with my crewmate for some papers I could steal from her later anyway. _Grandfather? There are claims that the Demon Princes are attempting to provoke a war between Iruvia and Akoros so you can use the ensuing confusion to break out of your spires. _

A sense of deep amusement and appreciation filled my head, Ixis' approximation of chuckling. _It is an interesting claim. Would you believe me if I said that is not true?_

_ Would you be telling the truth,_ I countered,_ if you said it was not true?_

For once, he gave me an almost-straight answer. _None of us benefit from a war with Akoros at this time._

_ Would you care to elaborate?_

A sense of what in a lesser being might have been frustration. _In what way would we benefit from a war, Signy? _Any_ of us?_

_ As Ash suggested, freeing yourselves from the confines of your spires?_

At that, the smoky tendrils danced, and, still laughing, Grandfather withdrew from my mind. He did leave a lingering impression that he'd told the truth, such as he knew it, and I tentatively chose to believe him.

_If I ever get bound to him_, came the stray, mad thought, _I can simply manifest him and have Ash question him. _

I quickly squashed that idea.

* * *

At the first available opportunity, I snuck into Faith's compartment and located that sheaf of papers, most of which actually turned out to be her lecture notes. However, sandwiched in the middle was – a recursive stick figure cartoon of me, bending over a desk and looking at a sheet of paper that had a picture of me, bending over a desk and looking at a sheet of paper that had a picture of….

And yes, it unmistakably depicted me, because Faith had helpfully included the labels "Isha," "Faith's desk," and "battle plans."


	66. Important Life Lessons

One typically cold winter morning, a wrathful pounding reverberated through the entry hall and into the classroom where we were teaching the orphans how to impersonate nobility. Moments later, our door creaked open and Mrs. Lomond poked her head in. Deliberately ignoring the bedsheets we'd pressed into service as cloaks or evening gowns with trains – the laundering of which _she_ would have to supervise – she inquired, "Should…should I get that? Or…should someone else…?" Her tone hinted at a pretty strong preference for the latter.

"We'll get it," I answered.

Her head vanished before I could change my mind.

"Ooooh," yawned Faith, "that sounds too much like real work. Mantis, you should really work on your accent. Brightstone children roll their r's more."

"I'll go with you," Ash told me.

Double-checking my concealed blades – "Kids, note where she keeps her knives," Ash instructed – I led the way to the front door, which was rattling on its hinges and obviously needed reinforcing, just as soon as we took care of whatever business awaited on the other side.

Said business turned out to be a bear of a baker, who had one large, floury hand on the scruff of Spider's neck and the other on the Azael's. "These are _yours_, right?" he growled, giving the boys a little shake.

Both dangled with the limpness of deep chagrin.

With a sigh, Ash pulled out his purse and began counting out slugs. "I see there are reparations to be made," he observed. "How much did they take?"

"It's not about the _money_!" snarled the baker, completely unmollified by the sight of hard silver. "It's about _you _controlling your _gang_!" And with that, he bowled the two boys past us.

Since starting my self-defense lessons, all the orphans had learned how to fall without hurting themselves (beyond the inevitable bruises). Now Spider and Azael tucked, hit the floorboards exactly right, and rolled to a gentle stop. When I knelt to check them, they refused to meet my eyes and stayed huddled up.

Smirking, I stood and hand-signed at Ash, _They're fine. Just humiliated_.

"We'll speak to the hierarchy," he was promising the baker in a conciliatory tone. "We'll make it clear to the orphans – " he stressed the word just slightly, appealing to the man's humanity – "whom they should and should not be disrupting."

The baker scowled at the disruptions to his day, who were still quivering in pathetic little balls at our feet. "This isn't the first time. I never want to see them again, taking all my pastries."

Donning the harassed expression I'd seen on my governesses right before they quit, I played the concerned teacher. "Can you tell us what they did, sir? Can you give us more details?"

"They've been running a two-man con!" roared the baker, waving his arms around like a windmill. "That one – " one thick finger stabbed in Spider's direction – "distracts me, while _that_ one – " the finger jabbed at Azael next – "crawls along the floor, snakes his filthy, thieving hand up behind the counter, and steals the pastries!"

That was _ingenious_.

And it definitely bore no resemblance whatsoever to any of the heists my brother and I might have pulled as children, no what the Anixis cooks might claim…. I was going to have to sit down with the boys for a postmortem, wasn't I, the way Mother used to? Map out the bakeries they'd targeted, analyze the frequency with which they hit each one, warn them not to establish patterns, the like?

Squelching a snicker, I assured the baker in my most earnest voice, "We'll hold a school assembly. We'll make it clear to all the orphans that theft – " or rather, getting caught at it – "is unacceptable and will not be tolerated."

Perhaps the admission of responsibility for our orphans' escapades would smudge – or slightly dent – our reputation with the Crow's Foot citizenry, but it seemed like a small price to pay.

At my words, the two boys peeked up at Ash and me, assessing whether we secretly approved of their scheme. I shot them a quelling glare, which they didn't need any training in hand signs to interpret as, _I'm proud of your creativity, but I am _not_ proud that you got caught._ They drooped.

Unfortunately, like the Coalridge citizenry, the Crow's Foot citizenry had also drawn certain conclusions about our crew's extra-educational, extra-legal activities, and the baker interpreted my expression as easily as the boys did. He looked frankly appalled.

"What else can you tell me about their operations?" I asked.

"They've been hanging around my shop. I was _warned_ about them. By the other bakers." He glowered at the tops of Spider's and Azael's heads. "They always steal the _sweet_ things." A predilection that, given the scarcity of sugar, was anathema in Doskvol.

Pulling a sympathetic face, Ash pressed a handful of slugs into the baker's palm. "That should cover your losses." He shrugged ruefully, as if to say, "What can you do? Kids love sweet things," and explained in a tone of utmost reason, "But the children were doing their best, and their scheme was sound – they just got caught. But you know, everyone gets caught once in a while." Wagging a pitch-black index finger at the boys, he admonished them, "You can still go there, but next time you have to _pay_."

Spider, who as one of the Insect Kids received an allowance from us, pouted but nodded obediently. Azael, who wasn't in that privileged circle, shot him a hopeful glance.

Sometime during that exchange, the classroom door had cracked open, and now Faith stormed out, ruffles bristling with indignation. "If you don't reform, your thieving ways will lead you into a life of crime that can only end on the gallows!" she raged, making a sympathy play on the baker in her own inimitable way. "You and you! Your non-moldy bread privileges for this month are revoked!"

Our local purveyor of non-moldy bread was actually mildly moved by the prospect of two children dying from food poisoning. "No, no, you don't need to do that, miss, they're just kids," he mumbled, edging backwards down the steps. "Just – " He caught himself on the last step and tried to look firm. "I'll – I'll cut them a deal on stale pastries next time. We expect you to control them, but their lives are awful enough already."

"And we'll make sure to keep them that way," Faith promised with a serene smile.

After the baker tromped off, Spider and Azael cautiously unfurled themselves and stood back up, looking sheepish as only two boys who'd literally gotten nabbed with their hands in the pastry case could.

Although Spider still didn't dare to meet our eyes, Azael ventured, "So…we're not really getting moldy bread, are we?" His eyes darted among the three of us, gauging the severity of our respective expressions, and settled on Faith as the most likely disciplinarian. (I was struggling to contain my mirth, while Ash looked merely disappointed.) "Miss Karstas?"

"I haven't yet decided," Faith informed him. "It depends on how you do on the exam."

"Right, um, I'm, um, I'm going to go study! Really really hard! And you're going to be proud of us!"

Faith just gave him an absent pat on the head. "Run along now."

He was only too happy to obey.

Spider, on the other hand, scuffed a toe, guilt spelled out in every line of his body. "'M s'rry we got you in trouble too," he mumbled, at a volume just above the threshold for human hearing.

"That's not trouble," Ash snorted, his brusqueness suggesting that he was on the verge of laughter. "Let me show you trouble, Spider."

The boy hung his head and sketched patterns on the grimy floorboards until Faith dismissed him too.

* * *

None of the orphans did particularly well on her next exam, which was a debate forcing them to argue positions they didn't believe in.

She still didn't feed them moldy bread.

* * *

I did, however, break them into small groups to develop plans for stealing low-value objects in diverse environments (a Coalridge general store, a Silkshore street stall, a Crow's Foot bakery, say). Then they presented their ideas to the class, and we critiqued them as a group – as an intellectual exercise only, I was careful to stress.

Given that the vast majority of our orphans were already diabolically clever about petty theft, they did much better in my class than they did in Faith's math class.

"If you can't do simple arithmetic, how are you going to count your money?" she scolded. "Do problems one through a hundred in the back of the book for tomorrow!"

For once, Ash backed her up, and then did her one better – by introducing them to the concept of compound interest.

Once he explained _why_ that was important, they set to work with a will.


	67. Cat Ears

After a special tutoring session for Spider and Azael in which we analyzed the latest iteration of their pastry acquisition scheme, Ash announced, "Isha, Faith, I want to introduce Azael to his Tycherosian heritage, and I happen to need to speak to my mother, so I'm taking him. Did either of you want to come?"

Did I _want_ to see a bunch of part-demon doctors and nurses who dealt in arcane rituals fueled by life essence collected from the dying – wearing fuzzy cat ears like little kids dressed up for Arkenvorn? Did I _want_ to see Ash'sreaction when his mother told him that he needed to wear cat ears, too? Did he even need to _ask_?

I shrugged at him. "Eh, I'm not really doing anything right now. Why not?"

To my surprise – after all, the best part of any prank was the denouement – Faith declined. Instead, she waved us off with a cheery, "Have fun, kids! Try not to get eaten by demons!"

As we strode through Nightmarket, Ash gave Azael a sanitized summary of his family's activities. "My mother's crew, the Blood Traders, is kind of like us," he explained (which came as a surprise to me since, as Faith had once pointed out to Bazso, we didn't exactly specialize in providing functioning pancreases). "They may do a little more along the lines of fixing books, though." (There was no "may" about it.) "My family is eccentric, and they also do rituals with…." He fumbled for an age-appropriate explanation and settled for, "It's kind of like electroplasm. A little bit. Anyway, it will be good for you to make more Tycherosian friends."

Diligently trotting along to keep up with us, Azael gave a solemn nod.

* * *

For some inexplicable reason, the Slanes' receptionist greeted us wearing a pair of sparkly cat ears attached to an orange satin headband.

"Are you…okay?" demanded Ash, both his voice and his face suggesting that she avail herself of the infirmary's services.

Her response was a frosty stare completely at odds with her normal friendliness. "I presume you're here to see Mistress Slane," she bit out.

"Yeees…." Ash was still frowning at the cat ears and looking as if he regretted picking this particular day to bring Azael. "Um?"

"I'll let her know." The receptionist put a message in the pneumatic tube, then met Ash's gaze stoically.

I'd positioned myself so I could see into the back hallway where the examination rooms were. Doctors and nurses in crisp white uniforms bustled about as usual – but all of them were decked out in furry, pointy ears. In fact, the young Tycherosi who ushered us to Zamira's office had tugged oversized, slightly deformed, brown tabby ears over his horns. Ash wasn't the only one giving Zamira's crew odd looks, although the patients were too polite (or too nervous) to comment.

"What on earth?" Ash snapped, mostly to himself. "Have they all gotten _possessed_?"

Zamira Slane was seated behind her desk when we entered, as usual – but something seemed to be missing. After a moment, I realized that it was her tail. Usually it draped over the back of her chair, black scales throwing off little blue glints under the electroplasmic lights, and waved around when she got excited. But today it was nowhere in sight.

However, her elegant cat ears _were_ the same shade of blue-black as her tail.

Acting completely normal, she glanced up from her paperwork and remarked, "Oh, Ash. I'm glad you're here."

"Moooooother?" he inquired, half-falling into a chair.

Shooting many puzzled looks at him, Azael nervously sat next to him. I took my customary seat by the door, and, since I was out of Ash's line of sight, permitted myself a broad grin – which Zamira most definitely did not return.

Slowly, blinking in confusion but determined not to make a scene in front of Azael, Ash began, "Moooother, I have serious matters to discuss…."

"As do I," she replied promptly. (I clenched my jaw to hold back a giggle.) "But go ahead."

"Mine…should be later…and in private. I would like to touch on _less _serious matters right now…. This is Azael." The boy was gawking at Zamira with his head tipped all the way to one side, like a Strathmill Park pigeon. "He is one of the upcoming stars of our, well…."

"Operations?" his mother finished smoothly. She extended a hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

Regarding his own grubby, sticky hand a little dubiously, the boy reluctantly put it out and shook hers. Zamira pretended not to notice how much candy he'd consumed on the way over.

"Azael can be trusted, and more importantly, he'll be in charge of delivering messages…." Ash's voice trailed off. Giving up on conducting any kind of serious business, he glared accusingly at his mother's cat ears, then shifted his stare to her face.

She straightened in a matter-of-fact way. "Ah, yes," she announced with commendable sangfroid. "We held a conference the other day, and we decided that it would be good for business if we projected a less intimidating appearance. Therefore, we have decided that we should seem less demonic. Of course, everyone is still aware that we are Tycherosi – we can't really hide that. Accordingly, we have decided to minimize – as much as possible – the extent to which the marks of our heritage are visible, and to adopt a more uniform appearance."

With absolutely perfect timing, she reached into a desk drawer, produced another pair of sleek black cat ears, and proffered them to Ash. When he refused to take them, she set them on the desk in front of him.

"Mooooother?" The way he stretched out the syllable warned her to stop the madness right this instant.

"Fortunately, I also have a spare."

Zamira slid a smaller pair of black cat ears across the desk to Azael, who picked them up with trembling fingers. Casting uncertain glances at Ash the entire time, the boy slowly fitted the headband over his messy shock of hair.

"Mother!" snapped Ash. "Surely you must have realized that this is absurd!"

"Is it," she stated, totally neutral.

I couldn't help it. I burst into giggles, which made poor Azael turn bright red, which only made me laugh harder.

"What _is_ this?" Ash asked, disgusted with both his mother and his crewmate. Seizing his pair, he inspected it suspiciously, as if it might spray glitter at him. When nothing happened, he grudgingly put it on.

Zamira nodded approvingly.

"They look good on you, Ash," I told him, widening my eyes in an imitation of Faith at her most earnest. "I think they really suit you."

A scathing glare was my reward. "I will get to the bottom of this," he vowed. "Azael, perhaps this is a good time for you to run along and find the other children."

"Okay, Mr. Slane!" No stranger to signs of an impending fight, Azael scrambled out of the office.

"This was not how I expected to start this conversation…." Distractedly, Ash swept the room for any eavesdropping devices while I leaned back, crossed my legs comfortably, and enjoyed the show.

Zamira told him, "You'll get used to them after a while."

His expression said that he would do nothing of the sort. "I…will remain confused. But, if nothing else, I wouldn't want to stand out by not wearing them?"

"Indeed."

Finishing his security sweep, Ash sank back into his seat and informed his mother in the most circumlocutory way ever, "The Hive has assassinated the seconds-in-command of our allied gangs. There are different options on the table, but doing nothing is not a popular one – and there are various extremes the response can run to. What we discuss here can influence the outcome. In any case, no matter what happens, there is potential for more blood to be drawn from any level of the Hive."

Accustomed to his speaking habits, his mother raised her eyebrows at him. "Are you suggesting that _we_ involve ourselves?"

That was not the reaction he'd expected – although probably the one he deserved. "No! Not in the slightest! What I'm trying to say is that we haven't decided what to do yet, but showing weakness to the Hive could be even riskier than taking action. That said, if something _is _to be done, you need to be forewarned."

"I see." Neither Zamira's tone nor her face gave away what she was thinking.

Sounding as if he were trying to soothe himself, he said, "It might not even be just us doing it. We're hardly the only assassins that they work with." (Actually, I was pretty sure we were. Neither Bazso's nor Mylera's styles tended towards anything as subtle and indirect as assassination.)

Sucking in a breath, Zamira clarified, "So you are concerned that the Red Sashes and Lampblacks will retaliate against the Hive, and that their connection to you will then be traced back to us."

"I wouldn't say that I'm concerned…," Ash hedged. "I'm just letting you know, as family and business partners."

His mother's mind had already raced several steps ahead, anticipating disaster. "If a real upheaval happens in the Hive, we have to pull Tess."

"True, but…." Unwilling to surrender that flow of coin, which still constituted the bulk of our income, he babbled and equivocated for a while before turning to me. "Isha, have I missed anything?"

I hastily rearranged my face into a sober expression. "No, I think that's it."

As we bade Zamira farewell and went to look for Azael, Ash fingered his cat ears uncomfortably but left them on. Literally every Tycherosi in sight was wearing them too, even the children with whom Azael was playing a game of marbles. Unlike the receptionist, however, most of Zamira's crew had left their ears plain and cat colored.

On our way out, Ash grabbed a passing orderly and snapped, "You must think this is ridiculous."

The poor man looked cornered. "Zamira's orders."

"_Zamira's orders_," Ash repeated sarcastically. "From the 'committee meeting.'"

The orderly refused to meet his eyes. "I don't know why Zamira gives the orders that she does."

"I see," Ash said, releasing him. "Well, I suppose we'll just all go and blend in together."

The young man nodded and fled.

"This is absurd," Ash grumbled before trying to spread the misery: "Would you like a pair, Isha? You wouldn't want to stand out too much."

I was grinning in a rather silly way, relishing the sight of a whole roomful of part-demons wearing furry cat ears. "Oh, no, that's quite all right."

"It's all very confusing," Ash pronounced to no one in particular.

Before we exited the infirmary, he tugged his hood all the way down to his forehead, hiding the cat ears as best he could.

* * *

When we dripped our way into the railcar, Faith (who'd probably been dancing with impatience, dying to know what happened) floated into the common room with a sketchbook tucked under her arm. At the sight of us, she stopped short and blinked at Ash, who was hanging up his soggy cloak. Chewing on her lower lip, she stared at him with intense concentration, as if attuning to figure out what demonic ritual had gone so horribly wrong.

Ash turned, registered her shocked face, yanked off his headband, and tossed it onto the table. "Something has infected Mother," he informed her. "I'm not sure what it is, but that's a mystery for another time. Right now, we have matters to discuss."

Faith released a deep breath with apparent heartfelt relief. "Oh, they're _removable_! For a moment, I thought you'd grown another demon tell!"

Her flippancy was enough to fray even Ash's temper. "It does _not_ work that way, Faith! You are entirely aware of this!" He hurled himself into his chair with so much force that the legs creaked. "Nonetheless, it is just a minor mistake that my mother has made. A _temporary_ one, just until she realizes it."

Shoving his cat ears aside, he piled a couple account books on top of them. (Smashed, crooked cat ears weren't going to do anything for his appearance the next time he went out, but who was I to comment?)

"Now – I think we need to discuss what we're doing and why," he told us, not bothering to specify what he meant. "I am not opposed." (He'd been saying that for ages now – and dodging and quibbling and opposing retaliation against the Hive the whole time.) "We just need to be fully committed if we're going down that path. It is not something we want to dabble in."

Personally, I thought _he_ was the one with commitment issues. I'd never _dabbled _in anything in my life. "Which path?" I inquired, just to be perverse.

"The path of starting to kill Hive members intentionally instead of accidentally, as we have had a very good habit of doing."

I permitted myself an eyeroll. "I'm in."

He'd known that from the start, of course. "So, I know that it would be poetic to take out the nephews since they killed Pickett and Xayah, but it is not impossible to short-circuit them. It would also be ludicrous and potentially stupid – but we might be able to take out Djera Maha herself. If we did that, we would start open warfare with the Hive, although we would likely do the same by taking out her lieutenants. I don't suppose that the nephews are vying with each other for power? That would be awfully convenient. Also, the Circle of Flame hates the Hive too, right? Does either of you have connections there? I've already checked with my mother, and she does not."

"We don't even know who the members are," I reminded him. "Isn't it a secret society?" (Sigmund and I could, of course, investigate and identify them – but that seemed like a terrible waste of time for very little benefit.)

"We could ask Mylera or Bazso if _they_ have connections, commit to this, and decide whom we're taking out…." Pushing aside the distasteful subject, Ash returned to his favorite theme: "Focusing on the Church instead would be totally fine with me."

Of course it would be. He'd been harping on that since the very beginning, but I threw him a sop anyway. "A side effect of targeting the Hive would be whittling down Church membership."

Ash blinked, acknowledging how deeply intertwined the two organizations were, and turned to our tiebreaker. "Where do you stand, Faith? I would pay dearly to kill Dunvil."

Throughout that entire conversation, Faith had remained standing just inside the common room, sketchbook dangling forgotten from one hand, head cocked as she contemplated the bit of faux fur poking out from under the account books. Now, addressed directly, she made a production of starting in surprise. "What?"

She didn't fool Ash for one second. "I have many ideas for what endless tortures Dunvil could undergo. But the Hive is more likely to send assassins after us, sooner or later."

Faith shut her eyes and shook her head in helpless confusion. "You'll have to forgive me. I wasn't paying any attention. I was too busy admiring the beauty of those cat ears. Can I try them on for a little while?"

Without waiting for permission, she darted over to the table and grabbed them.

"_Yes_," said Ash, as she clucked over the bent ears and settled them on her head, slightly askew.

Giving them a pleased stroke, she flopped into her chair, opened her sketchbook to a fresh page, and started scrawling out a stick figure. "Sorry, we're murdering the Church?"

Giving her the benefit of a doubt, Ash explained, "We're deciding between murdering the Church and the Hive. We could jump to Dunvil directly – "

"Are there people to pay us for that?" she interrupted, not looking up from her scribbling.

"I'm certain we could find people to pay us very dearly." (That was true. Nyryx, for one, abhorred the head of the Church in Doskvol.)

Faith's stick figure sprouted pointy cat ears and a snake-like, forked tail. "For higher-ups in the Church? That's fair."

"That said, I'm also certain that we could get quite a lot of coin for any higher-up in the Hive. It's simply a question of what we want to do: I'm worried about the Hive, and I hate the Church."

"I say we go for the Hive," I put in.

"But at what level?" Ash countered.

As I had sworn at Pickett's funeral, I intended to extract revenge to the utmost limit. However, neither Ash nor Faith harbored the same personal hatred that I did, so I played on a different, more promising reason: "Assassinating Djera Maha's nephews first is very much in keeping with our theme."

"It is," he allowed. "And I'm not opposed." (Meaning that he was.) "The nephews are good targets, but it would honestly be safer to deal with Djera Maha first."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because it would create a power vacuum in which the nephews vie for control. If her nephews are taken out, she will immediately hire assassins with more money than we can access, to retaliate against their murderers. That will be us. We will have assassins coming after us, and we are not well suited to protect against them."

Actually, I thought we were uniquely well suited for defending against other "guildmembers of our profession." After all, the only people who knew about our railcar were our allies, and we could simply hunker down here while launching strategic strikes against the Hive.

Ash, however, had larger concerns than just the three of us. "The orphans will suffer. Almost inevitably."

That was a fair point: By now, Strathmill House was inextricably associated with our crew, and we couldn't exactly pack a horde of children into our railcar. "You're right," I conceded. "I really like the idea of poetic justice, but we can take out Djera Maha first."

Looking up from her portrait of Zamira Slane at last, Faith threw open her arms and declaimed, "Until the Hive takes this as a call to arms against our crew and our allies and descends upon us to torch the orphanage in a frenzy of fire and flame! Then you will flee, hearing the shrieks of the slightly charred children as the inferno engulfs their bodies. And you will know deep inside your heart that it was _all your fault_. Their screams and their ghosts will haunt you for the rest of your demonic days!"

"I'm going to invest in some safehouses for the orphans where we can regroup in case all of our headquarters get burned," was Ash's cool response. To me, he said, "The important thing will be setting up _very private_ meetings with Bazso and Mylera. They will probably have opinions on this. They had _better_ have opinions on this."

Did they ever! And Mylera had basically already told me that she wanted to hire us to avenge her best friend's murder. "I know Mylera for one has opinions. I am fairly certain Bazso does as well."

"Well, since you're their most intimate confidante, why don't you organize the meetings?"

I was more than happy to oblige.


End file.
